


Songs from the Shore

by takethetrain



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: (in spirit), Alternate Universe - Pirate/mermaid, Anna is my wife, Charles is a naval captain, F/F, F/M, Grace is a siren, Jesse is a surprise, Lucie is up to no good, M/M, Sona is tired, The Carstairs are mermaids, The Merry Thieves are pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:41:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 62,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27624875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethetrain/pseuds/takethetrain
Summary: The year is 1717. The British port city of Alicante is under siege—sea monsters, typically scarce and reclusive, have begun to appear in droves, terrorizing anyone who ventures out into the ocean. Desperate to bring the situation under control, the British Navy sends every young man they can find on dangerous hunting expeditions.Captain James Herondale and his crew of hooligans answer the call, but they have their own ideas about how the situation should be handled. Thomas Lightwood, their level-headed navigator, worries. He worries they will be caught between conflicts in the sea and on the shore; he worries about James's increasingly mysterious behavior; he worries, most of all, about the benevolent creatures he knows hide beneath the treacherous waves.Hoping to escape the dangers of the deep ocean and begin a new life with her children, Sona Carstairs relocates her family to Alicante. Quickly, she realizes her mistake—the once-safe waters are no longer, plagued by monsters and Navy ships willing to kill sea-dwellers indiscriminately. With nowhere else to go, Cordelia and Alastair must act quickly to find safety. But in these strange times, safety on any terrain may be hard to come by.
Relationships: Alastair Carstairs/Thomas Lightwood, Ariadne Bridgestock/Anna Lightwood, Cordelia Carstairs/James Herondale, Jesse Blackthorn/Lucie Herondale, Past-Alastair Carstairs/Charles Fairchild
Comments: 97
Kudos: 182





	1. Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got so out of hand. Please enjoy.

_Who would be  
A merman bold,  
Sitting alone,  
Singing alone  
Under the sea,  
With a crown of gold,  
On a throne?_

— Alfred, Lord Tennyson, _The Merman_

1712

Thomas Lightwood was thirteen years old the first time he met a merman.

The day began like any other in Thomas’s strange half-life. His ill health had kept him cooped up inside, as it often did, buried under blankets and watchful stares. Thomas loved his family, but sometimes there was just so _much_ of them. It seemed that everywhere he turned there was an outstretched hand guiding him back into bed, a chiding voice, a patronizing head pat, a cup of tea pressed onto him without anyone bothering to ask whether he even _wanted_ tea.

Thomas liked tea well enough, but really, a fellow could only drink so much of it in a single day. On days like today, the combined forces of caffeine and claustrophobia made him feel ten times his small size—like he would burst apart if he did not make some sort of escape. So when his father Gideon took his sisters Barbara and Eugenia to the Saturday afternoon market and his mother Sophie vanished to her room to write a few necessary letters, Thomas seized his chance.

He slipped out the back door, through the garden and down the little tree-lined passage that led to the beach. The Lightwoods did not live far from the ocean, and the sea air had been tantalizing him all morning as it seeped through his window into his stuffy bedroom. Now, he could breathe it in freely, and as the ground gave way to sand underneath him, he found himself grinning.

This was his secret routine: a gift he gave himself as often as he could get away with it. This taste of freedom, of solitude. The ocean stretched in front of him, an endless expanse of dark blue-gray and white foam. Still smiling to himself, Thomas slowed his excited pace and began to stroll along the water.

The sun was out—a rare occurrence in England—but a familiar coastal chill clung to the air, prompting him to skirt around patches of shade as he walked, chasing what warmth the sky was willing to lend him. His parents would be horrified if they knew he was out and about without his coat on. Well, they’d be horrified if they knew he was out and about at all, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care much at this exact moment. What were small worries next to this, the sea?

In fact, he felt better than he had all day. He took a deep breath of cold salt air, wondering idly if he could convince his parents that the ocean was good for him. People in books were always going to the seaside for their health! There had to be some truth to that. Maybe he’d even get away with some _swimming_ then. What a dream that would be!

Of course, he reminded himself, everyone knew it was not terribly safe to swim in this particular ocean. It had been a long time since anyone had seen any monsters, but that didn’t mean the risk wasn’t there. Thomas had grown up simultaneously fascinated and terrified by this very risk. He himself had never seen any strange sea creatures, dangerous or benevolent, but he knew those who had. His parents had fought and killed sea monsters before he was born: teuthida demons, mostly, and even a kraken. His cousin Anna recounted, with great relish, horror stories of children being snatched away by kappas. His friend Matthew swore up and down he’d seen naiads down by the cliffs, completely nude—but then, a scandalous encounter with a group of naked people was exactly the sort of thing Matthew would make up, just to be shocking.

There were also the merfolk. But Thomas didn’t know anybody who’d seen a mermaid, or a merman, or even a siren; he simply knew they were there. The streets of his town provided all the evidence he needed: murals on the old brick buildings, depicting massive, ethereal creatures with the heads and torsos of humans and the tails of fish. Most people he knew believed in merfolk like they believed in fairytales: enough to be enthralled by the idea of them, but not enough to place any real stake in the truth of their existence. Thomas, however, believed with every ounce of his being. He wasn’t sure why, exactly—he just _knew_ they were out there. It was a conviction he shared only with Lucie, his creatively-minded pseudo-cousin.

Thomas glanced behind him. He was quite far down the shore now: the stout, smoking outline of the port city of Alicante had shrunk in the distance. Not a soul could be seen on the entire stretch of beach.

The freedom of it all nearly left him breathless. He grinned again, standing alone in the sand. He was very tempted to take his shoes off and skip around like a child, put his toes in the water, and he’d nearly decided to go for it, chill be damned—but his train of thought was cut into by an unfamiliar sound.

It was brief, just a trace of something on the wind, so quick and distant he might have imagined it. A sweet sound, like music. But it was gone before he could put a finger on it. He held still, waiting for it to repeat itself, but it did not.

It was possible, Thomas mused, that he had imagined it after all; he was often composing songs on these illicit walks. Maybe inspiration had come to him on the wind. If so, he’d better take advantage of it before it slipped away from him. He set off again, narrowing his eyes against the bright sun as he set his mind to the task—where had he left off, last time? Gradually, the pieces of his song-in-progress came to him, snatches of music drifting haphazardly around his head.

He hummed a few notes aloud. Thomas hated his singing voice, as a rule, but he quite enjoyed songwriting and it was useful to put his creations into practice, as long as no one else was around. He hummed a few more. These ones were new, and he tested them to himself a second time and a third, very quietly. It made a nice melody, and he smiled, pleased with himself.

And then he heard it again. This time, it was clearly music, and clearly _not_ in his imagination. No, somebody was _singing_. Somebody nearby. Or nearby enough, at least, for the sound to carry gently to him on the wind.

Thomas froze. The sound washed over him, sweet trails of notes in a low, beautiful voice. Looking ahead of him, he could see no one on the beach—only the sea caves in the distance. It must be coming from there, then.

He considered turning back to give the singer some privacy—Thomas himself would be mortified if someone caught him out while he was singing—but he found that his need to discover the source of the voice won out over politeness. His feet carried him forward nearly against his will. 

The singing became louder as he approached the nearest cave; he could hear it echoing a little around the cave’s stone walls. The lyrics, he realized, were in a language he did not know or recognize, and their poetry, set against the music, was so beautiful it made a sort of warmth bloom in his chest.

He had reached the cave’s mouth. His eyes, well-used to the sun, could see nothing but shadows; he blinked once, twice, three times. He saw the shape of something—a silhouette of someone—and took a step forward.

If he had expected solid ground under his feet, he was sorely mistaken. He stumbled with a cry as the wet sand gave way, slipping down a small hill into a deep puddle. The singing cut off with a gasp, and then a loud splash that ricocheted through the space. Thomas, submerged in water up to his knees and breathing hard, waited for further response, but there was nothing.

He blinked again, heart pounding in his chest. _Well, this is excellent,_ he thought grimly, frowning at himself. Now his mother would see his soaked trousers and know instantly what he’d been up to—and he’d scared off the singer, to boot.

Where _was_ the singer? The cave was completely silent. As Thomas’s vision adjusted, he saw that it was not very large at all, and comprised almost entirely of one huge tide pool, which Thomas was now standing partly submerged in. He could see the jagged shapes of rocks breaking the pool’s surface, but no sign of a person.

“Hello?” Thomas called, tentatively. His voice was high and clear as it echoed against the opposite wall.

No response. Thomas began to feel rather foolish—maybe he _had_ imagined the singing, after all. But no, he’d definitely heard it. Maybe he was going a bit mad. Maybe his prolonged cabin fever had finally pushed him over the edge.

“Hello?” Thomas repeated. He paused, and then said, “I know you’re here.” Silence. “I heard singing,” Thomas added, stubbornly. “I know I did. So it’s rather pointless to—to hide, you know.”

Ahead of him, the water rippled, and something emerged. A dark shape—a head, Thomas thought distantly, through a cloud of confusion—and then the jutting edge of a pair of shoulders.

“Good lord,” said a drawling voice. “You’re really not going to leave this alone, are you?”

Thomas blinked. It was a boy. A boy about his age. As Thomas stared at him, dumbstruck, the boy reached an arm out of the water to push sopping dark hair out of his angular, scowling face. He made no move to get further out of the water—only glared at Thomas like he had interrupted something important.

Well, he had been singing, Thomas reflected. It was clear that he should have gone with his first instinct after all; this boy obviously valued his privacy, just like Thomas did. Thomas attempted to back up a step, but the sloped ground gave way under him, and he slid back to where he’d been before, water sloshing around his knees. The boy lifted an unimpressed eyebrow. He appeared not to be wearing a shirt, Thomas noticed. Maybe he was wearing nothing at _all,_ and that was why he was crouching so low in the water like that. The thought made Thomas’s stomach swoop nervously. He should really turn back and leave this boy to…whatever he was doing. 

Instead, he found himself speaking. “Are you…going for a swim?” he asked. _“Here?”_

The boy gazed flatly at Thomas for a long moment, as though assessing him. After what felt like an eternity, he took a slow breath. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

“Well—isn’t it awfully chilly?” In Thomas’s opinion, it was. He could already feel the cold water sapping some of his own energy as he stood submerged in it. He couldn’t imagine being entirely soaked like that—the boy must be freezing!

But the boy only shrugged one shoulder. “It’s not bad,” he said. Indeed, he did look comfortable enough, albeit rather annoyed. As Thomas watched, he sank back into the water until it came up to his chin, glaring up at Thomas through dark eyelashes.

“Ah,” Thomas said, eloquently. “Well. I guess you’re alright then.”

The boy raised an eyebrow again—he had striking, expressive eyebrows, Thomas noted—and said, “Quite.” He eyed the sky over Thomas’s shoulder; the sun must have been moving into view, because golden rays were beginning to pour into the left corner of the cave. The boy met his gaze again. “Is that all, or are you planning to stand there until the tide comes in and sweeps you out?”

Thomas felt his cheeks flush. “That’s all,” he said, and then remembered. “No, it’s not. I heard you singing.”

He meant to say more, but found that the words did not come. The boy blinked at him. “Oh,” he said. He paused as though waiting for Thomas to elaborate. When Thomas remained frozen, uncertainty stole briefly over the boy’s features. “Is that an accusation?” he asked. “A complaint? An objective statement of truth? I apologize if I disturbed you—”

“You didn’t,” Thomas rushed to assure him, the words coming so quickly that he nearly shouted them. The boy raised both of his striking eyebrows. “It’s a compliment. I—I would have minded my own business, but your singing was so beautiful I had to—I had to meet you.”

He knew he was flushed red again, and rather wished he’d kept his mouth shut. The boy looked stunned for a single moment, before his expression cleared and he glanced away. “Well,” he said. “You’ve met me.”

Thomas followed the boy’s gaze. More sunlight was falling into the cave now, lighting up bits of the tide pool: Thomas thought that the boy was watching its progression a little nervously. Maybe he had somewhere to be—parents waiting at home for him to return from his swim. Maybe he, like Thomas, was not supposed to be out. 

But then, it occurred to Thomas, he’d never seen this boy in Alicante. Which almost certainly meant he didn’t live there: there was only one school, and not all that many boys his age. Perhaps his family was visiting; Alicante was a small but important port town, drawing merchants from all over the world. They didn’t often bring their children along, but still, that might explain this boy’s presence here—he didn’t have strictly English features, nor particularly English coloring, though his accent sounded familiar enough. Maybe he hailed from a different part of the world. Maybe, Thomas mused, somewhere where the ocean was a good deal colder—that would explain his bizarre immunity to the water that felt, to Thomas, more frigid by the second.

“What’s your name?” he asked the boy. “I haven’t seen you around town before—are you visiting?”

The boy looked back at Thomas, narrowing his dark eyes. “So many questions,” he remarked, but his tone was neutral; Thomas couldn’t tell whether he was actually bothered. He ran a hand through his wet hair again, gazing at Thomas appraisingly. “I’m not from here, no. My family moves often, so you could say I’m from…everywhere.” He paused. “Everywhere and nowhere.”

Thomas thought it was a rather cryptic answer—he might’ve at least named one place—but maybe the boy was just a rather private person, which would be fair enough. He had no obligation, after all, to share personal information with Thomas, who’d so rudely interrupted his solitude. 

Not just interrupted it—thoroughly shattered it! And here he stood, continuing to do so. Suddenly, he was mortified. What on earth had compelled him to remain here for this long, demanding things from this stranger boy when he’d already made an utter fool of himself?

“Lord,” Thomas said, frowning. “I must apologize, I don’t know what’s gotten into me. You were only minding your business, and I’ve come along and disturbed you for several minutes at least!”

A ray of sunlight caught the boy’s face for a moment; he ducked further into the water, as though to avoid it. “Yes, well,” he said. “I’ll forgive you if you turn around and march right back out the way you came.” He glared at Thomas, eyes glittering dangerously. “And don’t breathe a word of this interaction to anyone, or I swear to God—”

Thomas was not actually sure whether the boy finished his sentence: he did not hear any more of the impending threat, but he didn't know whether that was because the boy had stopped speaking or because of the sudden ringing in his ears. It could have been either one, because the sun had finally appeared—lighting up the whole cave a brilliant orange—and Thomas was quite unaware of anything but the sight before him.

Light had spilled all around where the boy lurked, illuminating the tide pool and casting every part of him in gold. His brown skin, glittering all over with water droplets. His dark eyes, the iris only a shade lighter than the pupil even under the sunlight’s intense scrutiny, wide with horror as they met Thomas’s. His hair, still black: black as night, black as a crow’s wing, black as the shape of a massive fish tail now clearly visible through the water. 

Thomas could not get a breath. Neither, it seemed, could the boy—the color was leeching out of his skin before Thomas’s eyes. Still, even that could not break the spell: under the setting sun, his was the sort of beauty Thomas had only ever read about in books. The effect was so stunning that Thomas nearly did not process the far more glaring problem at hand. Then it hit him, and cold fear rocketed down his spine.

Oh, God. He’d been so _stupid. How had he not guessed?_

“You’re a siren!” he cried. He took a step backwards, and then another, stumbling as the wet sand gave way beneath him.

The boy blinked at him as he hit the ground and continued to scramble backwards. Thomas watched his expression morph from horror into surprise, and then from surprise into confusion.

 _“What?”_ he said, sounding flabbergasted.

“I should have known!” Thomas gasped, nearly in tears as he tried to make it to his feet. “The singing—you mean to drown me!”

“Wait—wait a minute,” the boy said, lifting his hands like he could physically calm Thomas down. “I’m not a siren, you dolt!”

This gave Thomas pause, but only briefly. He’d just managed to regain his footing and was poised to run, trembling a little as he balanced precariously on the treacherous ground. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “What are you, then?”

“A _merman,”_ the boy said, _“obviously.”_ He looked exasperated now—even a little offended. Thomas frowned at him, backing up a few more steps.

“How is that obvious? You drew me here with your singing—”

“Not _on purpose. You_ were the one who decided to barge in on me while I was, as _you_ said, minding my own business.” He raised himself up out of the water a bit, glaring at Thomas incredulously. “Haven’t you been taught about siren songs? Only an idiot would mistake regular singing for siren singing.”

Thomas felt his frown deepen. “Your singing wasn’t regular,” he insisted, stubbornly. “I’d never heard anything so beautiful—that’s why I came all the way out here to investigate!”

To his immense surprise, the boy’s cheeks flushed. He seemed to struggle with his words for a moment, before settling eloquently on, “Are you daft?”

“No,” Thomas said, defensively. “Well, maybe, but—I’m just being careful!” A tiny voice in the back of his head whispered that this did not, actually, constitute careful behavior. If he was being truly careful, he’d have bolted by this point and not looked back.

But still, he stood here. Part of him wanted to believe the boy was keeping him rooted to the spot through some sort of magic, but another, smaller part of him knew that was not true.

He took another step back, just to make sure. He probably looked ridiculous: shivering, edging away, covered in wet sand. The boy huffed out an exasperated breath.

“Flee if you will, then,” he said. “But please, for the love of God, do not run back to your city and tell everyone you’ve spotted a siren down by the caves. They’d feel the need to do something about it, and that would be very bad news for me and my family.”

Through the boy’s annoyance, Thomas could see that there was genuine worry in his eyes. _Oh,_ he thought. It was possible that he was a complete fool.

“I suppose,” he acknowledged, cautiously, “that I do not know how to tell sirens apart from merfolk.”

The boy rolled his eyes, even as the tense line of his shoulders seemed to relax a little. “Sirens,” he said, as though speaking to a small child, “are exceptionally beautiful, ethereal creatures with _actual magical powers_ that enable them to draw you in against your will. If you met one, I feel certain you’d know immediately.”

Privately, Thomas thought the boy was not making a very good case for himself, but he was beginning to realize that he might risk a great deal of embarrassment by saying so. He frowned again.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not a siren?”

“Quite sure,” the boy said, dryly. “If I was, I’d have charmed you into leaving me alone by now. Or killed you, I suppose.” He tilted his head thoughtfully, looking at Thomas through slitted eyes. “Now I’m rather wishing I _was_ a siren.”

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Thomas said sternly.

The boy looked amused. “Have we calmed down, then?” he asked. Before Thomas could answer, he leaned back, stretching his arms above him, letting his tail sweep under him and emerge through the water in front of him. It moved fluidly, as though it was an extension of the ocean itself.

Thomas stared. The tail was such a dark shade of black that he might not have been able to make out its scales at all, if it weren’t for the shine of the sun outlining each of them in gold. As it reached his torso, the scales begin to thin out, morphing gradually and seamlessly into smooth brown skin. The tail was about the size, Thomas supposed, that the boy’s legs would have been, if he’d had them. How strange—to have a tail instead of legs! He couldn’t imagine what that would be like. He wanted to ask, but he suspected that might come off as rude. Really, his staring was rude enough.

The boy didn’t seem to mind, though. He looked much more at ease now as he considered Thomas. Thomas realized, with a start, that there was a barely visible row of gills on the right side of his neck.

“What brings you all the way out here by yourself, anyway?” he asked Thomas, not sounding particularly interested in the answer.

“I was just going for a stroll,” Thomas said, and thought of his mother, who was surely done with her letters by now and frantic over his disappearance. He groaned aloud. The boy raised a curious eyebrow at him. “I’m not supposed to be out,” Thomas explained. “I’ve been gone for quite a long time now.”

The boy swept his arms through the water, righting himself so he was looking at Thomas head-on. “Why not? Parents afraid you’ll be snatched up by a siren?” He grinned as Thomas glowered at him.

“My health,” Thomas said. “It can be…problematic. My family would rather I spend all day resting, preferably under their watch.”

Some of his feelings about this must’ve shown on his face, because the boy gave him a knowing, narrow-eyed look. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “The sea is _good_ for your health. Being cooped up inside is…” he shuddered, like he found the idea utterly horrifying.

Well, he would, Thomas mused. He had, ostensibly, free reign of the entire ocean. _What a life!_ Thomas thought, and for a moment felt such a rush of jealousy and wistfulness that he nearly lost his breath.

“They’re just worried about me,” he said, finally, without much conviction. The boy scoffed.

“You don’t have to defend them,” he said. “I understand, you love your family and all that nonsense, but you can still be annoyed at them.” He raised himself up out of the water again, tail whipping back and forth underneath him. “Look, I’ll be annoyed at them with you. I’m quite good at being annoyed.”

Thomas laughed, surprised. He opened his mouth to respond, but then he heard a shout. It was distant—it had only barely reached him on the wind—but the shape of it was unmistakable.

 _“Thomas!”_ the shout rang again. Thomas felt his stomach sink. _Oh, no._

The boy met his gaze with raised eyebrows. “Thomas? Is that you?”

“That’s me.” Thomas heard the resignation in his own voice. “Someone’s come looking for me.”

“You really weren’t kidding," the boy said. "Are they always like this?”

“Yes,” Thomas said, and then heard the shout again: a bit closer this time. He frowned. “I’d better go,” he said.

“Yes, you’d better,” the boy observed. “I’d rather not alert a responsible adult to my presence here—if you could meet them before they reach us, that would be ideal.”

A pang of regret went through Thomas—he was not at all ready to part ways yet. He’d met a _merman,_ he realized with dawning horror, and they’d spent almost the whole time talking about _him,_ Thomas, and his awfully uninteresting life!

“Oh, dear,” Thomas said aloud, before he could stop himself. “I had so many things I wanted to ask you!”

The boy hummed. “Probably best that you have to go, then,” he drawled, but he was smiling a little. 

There was another shout: this time, much closer to them. Thomas watched as nervousness stole briefly across the boy’s face, and knew it was time. “Well,” he said, regretfully, “that’s my cue. Sorry again for disturbing you.”

The boy shrugged one of his sharp shoulders. “Go on, Thomas,” he said lightly. “Don’t get yourself in any worse trouble.”

Thomas turned away. When he reached the mouth of the cave, he glanced back one last time to see the boy watching him leave with thoughtful dark eyes. As their gazes met, the boy smirked wickedly. “And don’t let the sirens get you!” he called, gleeful voice echoing around the stone walls.

Thomas gave him a dark look, and it was to the sound of the boy’s fading laughter that he set off down the beach once more.

Only that night, with nothing but the memories of sweet singing and salt air to keep him company in his dark room, would it occur to him that he never learned his merman’s name. 

—

1713

Lucie Herondale was twelve years old the first time she met a mermaid.

It was a fine summer morning—perfect for sailing, her father declared, much to Lucie’s delight and her brother James’s chagrin. They’d been meaning to go out on the water for ages, but James was always coming up with excuses to avoid it: sudden illness, important schoolwork, plans with his little crew of friends. An outsider might’ve thought he was afraid of the ocean, but Lucie knew that wasn’t it—James, like Lucie, had loved the sea since he was a child.

No, James wasn’t afraid of the ocean. He was afraid of himself, and the effect he had on it.

It was this effect, in fact, that Lucie’s father wanted to explore. He’d been imploring James to do so for ages—insisting that James’s strange ability wasn’t going anywhere, and the best thing he could do at this point was stop resisting it and see if he could get it under control. Lucie knew that her mother, Tessa, agreed, although she was never so insistent about it. Now, Tessa stood with a large wicker picnic basket in her arms, watching James with her concerned gray gaze as he sulkily helped Will get the sailboat ready.

Lucie, bouncing on the balls of her feet beside her mother, called, “Do cheer up, James! You look as though you’re headed off to the gallows! Aren’t you excited to go sailing? We haven’t been in ages!”

Her brother glared at her, though she knew the glare wasn’t really meant for her so much as the situation in general.

“Leave him be, dear,” Tessa chided, gently. “He’s just nervous.”

“He’ll be fine,” Lucie said, with confidence. She knew her brother: he had a rather irksome habit of underestimating himself. She considered it her solemn duty to get him to quit doing that. In this duty, James’s friend Matthew was her second-in-command.

“We’re just about ready, Tess,” Will called, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he tied the halyard to the mast. James, standing beside him, looked a bit pale. As though sensing this, Will straightened and clapped a hand on his shoulder. He glanced over at Tessa and Lucie with warm, ocean-blue eyes. “Shall we, then?”

Lucie loved being out on the open water like she loved nothing else. It was a bit like being right in the middle of a really good story—like she had ventured far out from where she had been at the beginning, but there was still a long way to go before she reached the end. The boat kept her at arm’s length from the danger and excitement of the ocean, but she was just close enough to taste it all the same. It was nothing short of thrilling.

She was dimly aware of her parents talking with James in low voices as her father toyed with the sails, but most of her focus was on the deep blue water rushing rapidly past them. She leaned over the edge of the boat, staring at the rippling surface as though she could see whatever lurked beneath. Every once in awhile, a particularly large ripple would toss their ship up, and then it’d fall sharply down, and white spray would rocket up around her. Lucie would laugh, then, delighted to know that she’d return home with memories of the ocean in her hair and on her skin.

“Good,” she heard Will say. “Good, James.”

She chanced a glance to the side. Will had stopped steering the boat and was watching his son, who stood at the bow, eyes closed, hands lifted in front of him. Lucie realized with a jolt of excitement that _James_ was steering them, now. 

“Go James!” she cried, and the boat gave a little lurch. Oops. She probably shouldn’t be distracting him.

Tessa put a finger to her lips, but she was smiling behind it. Lucie grinned brightly back.

It had been a long time since they’d known that the ocean… _listened_ to her brother. It had shown up in small ways, at first: he always seemed to be able to find the biggest waves to play in, for example, or the biggest fish to bring home for supper. As he’d gotten older, though, they had all begun to realize that something strange was going on. It had culminated in James nearly drowning after a fit of anxiety had caused a freak wave to come along and capsize his boat; he only lived because the ocean had—miraculously, impossibly—carried him all the way back to shore.

Since then, James had wanted nothing to do with it. Lucie tried to understand that, but she really couldn’t—if _she_ had some sort of special understanding with the sea, she’d run straight into the water and never return. But she supposed she couldn’t fault him for being a bit freaked out about it.

A gust of wind rocked the boat slightly; James hovered his hands perfectly flat in front of him, and it stilled. Lucie would never tell him so, but she was impressed.

“We might have a bit of a storm coming in,” Tessa noted quietly. Lucie followed her mother’s gaze to a group of gray clouds approaching them over the horizon. “Do you think we should turn back?”

“In a moment, perhaps,” Will said. Another, stronger gust of wind sent them leaning sideways again. James steadied them once more, but he sent his mother a nervous glance.

“We’ve only just gone out!” Lucie protested, still leaning over the boat’s edge. “We can’t go back now!”

“We’ll go out again soon, Lulu,” Will assured her. “James is doing excellently, but we can’t ask him to carry us safely through a storm—that would be incredibly stressful for all involved.”

Lucie opened her mouth to say something about storms being exciting—and truly, the thrilling experience of weathering a storm on the open water would make for an excellent addition to one of her stories—but before she could get a word out, another gust of wind slammed into them.

This time, it was accompanied by a dramatic swell of water, and she cried out in surprise as they were lifted. She heard James curse, and then the boat tilted to the side and she was tossed overboard.

Then all she knew was the sea. Dark, cold pressure caught her on all sides and held her fast, sucking her down beneath the surface—beneath the boat. She opened her mouth as though to cry for help, and her lungs filled with salt water. She tried to cough, but could not. Pain lanced through her chest. Black spots danced across her vision.

Dimly, she was aware of strange currents rushing around her; perhaps James was reaching for her, feeling for her through the sea. _I’m here, James,_ she wanted to say, but she was sinking further, and the world was growing darker.

And this dark world was vast. So vast that she could feel it stretching all around her, far beneath her. Suddenly, terror gripped her. She was sure, in a way that she couldn’t really account for, that she was not alone. Something was below her: something very large was below her, and she needed to swim, she needed to swim away _now,_ but she could not move her arms, and she could not move her legs—

Something brushed past her. Something smooth, and fast. Lucie choked on a scream, and then there was a face in front of her.

It was a girl’s face. Lucie only had time to process the reality of her—the wide, dark eyes, the halo of red hair fanning out into the water around her—before she disappeared from view and strong, warm arms wrapped around Lucie’s waist.

 _You’re alright,_ a low voice said. Lucie wasn’t sure how she could hear it: the voice almost seemed to be coming from inside her own head. _Come, now._ And she was being pulled through the water. The girl must be behind her—red hair drifted just in front of Lucie’s face. Lucie glanced down one more time at the bottomless depths, and caught a flash of something: a strong bronze fishtail whipped into view. It was the _girl’s_ tail, she realized with a shock. She was a _mermaid._

She wanted to tell the mermaid to go—that there was something down there below them, something dangerous.

But she could not speak. _Hold on,_ the sweet voice said, urgently. _We’re almost there._ She felt the mermaid’s grip around her tighten, and then she felt them break the surface. Cold air hit her face; she heard a shout, saw the sailboat in the distance—and then she heard and saw and felt nothing at all.

—

1714

James Herondale was fourteen years old the first time he met a mermaid.

He’d known they existed, of course—known with certainty after his sister, Lucie, was saved by one a year ago. It was one of the great regrets of his life that he had not caught a glimpse of her before she’d vanished again, but he’d certainly heard Lucie’s spirited retelling of the event enough times to have formed his own image of her.

In fact, he’d heard so many over-the-top descriptions of the mermaid’s bronze tail (“like the blade of a pirate captain, James!”) and her beautiful hair (if Lucie was feeling romantic, it was the color of roses; if she had a taste for drama, it was the color of blood; if she felt somewhere in between the two, as was most often the case, it became the color of fire) that he sometimes felt as though he _had_ seen her. He had half a mind to tell his sister she’d forced a pseudo-memory upon him, but he rather suspected she’d be pleased with herself if she found out.

In realty, though, James had never seen an interesting sea creature of any sort. The fact didn’t bother him as much as it might; he had far too much strangeness on his hands as it was, what with his steadily growing ability to influence the ocean’s waves.

It was this ability that had brought him out of the house today. He hadn’t told anyone he was practicing—not even his friends, who’d certainly have wanted to come along and make sure he didn’t drown himself by accident. (There had been many close calls). He justified his secrecy by telling himself that, after all, he was only going down to the tide pools.

This was a routine of his. The pools were a little known secret, available only to those brave enough to skirt around the rocky sea caves and venture past them, and as such he was usually left alone there. Now, as he passed the last cave, he saw with some trepidation that this would not be the case this time: the pale shape of a head had just broken the surface of the furthest pool.

He thought he should probably turn around and head back, but found that he was awfully curious about who might be _swimming_ in a _tide pool_ so early in the morning. So he stood there for a moment, caught between warring impulses, until he heard a voice.

“Herondale boy,” said the voice, low and sweet over the rocks. “Why are you standing there like that?”

James started. The pale head was looking at him; it was the head of a girl, with long, silver-white hair that gleamed with wetness under the sun. As he watched, she lifted a hand from the water and beckoned to him.

“Come closer,” she said, “Herondale boy.”

James stared at her, even as his feet began to move of their own accord. Did he know her? He could see as he approached that she was exceptionally beautiful, albeit in a cold, inaccessible sort of way—he felt certain he’d remember if he’d seen her in town before. “How do you know my name?” he asked.

She smiled. He had reached the edge of the pool, and he stared down into it, at her, dull shock turning his body numb.

“Bloody hell,” he said, his own voice coming to him as though from a great distance. “You’re a mermaid.”

The girl laughed. It was a sound like tinkling bells. She shifted in the water, so that her long, silvery tail flashed in the sunlight. James noted with a good deal of embarrassment that, other than the scales that thinned out around her torso and shielded her breasts in silver, she was otherwise completely unclothed.

Well, he reminded himself wryly, she was a mermaid. She didn’t have much need for clothes. Still, he wished fervently that he could back away, or at least turn his head away to give her some privacy—why couldn’t he? Why couldn't he move?

“And you’re James Herondale,” she responded, with a knowing look. “I’ve heard stories. You’re the one the ocean listens to.”

James gaped at her. How did she know? How could she possibly know? He’d only ever told his family, and his close friends—

“Shhh,” she said, softly. “Be calm, James. The citizens of the sea whisper. That is all.”

James did not feel calm; he felt rather as if he needed to remove himself from this situation as quickly as possible. He wasn’t sure quite why, but he had learn to trust his instincts where the ocean was involved.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, taking a step back. It felt like unsticking his foot from a pile of tar, and then he found he could not take another step.

The girl gazed at him calmly. “No, you don’t,” she said. “I’ve waited here for you a long time, and I’m not done with you yet. Stay, James. Sit with me awhile.”

“I don’t want to,” James said, through gritted teeth. Panic was gripping at him with steadily tightening fingers. “Let me go.”

The girl sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want to do this.”

And she began to sing. She sang a slow, high melody, and as the notes drifted past James, he realized that he knew nothing else. Nothing but the mermaid—the moment—the song.

He was sure, like he’d never been sure of anything, that he could die happy like this.

He closed his eyes.

—

1717

Anna Lightwood was twenty years old the first time she met a mermaid.

It had been a horrid day in a string of horrid days. The sudden onslaught of sea monsters showing up in Alicante’s waters, besides being a right nuisance, was exceptionally bad for business. Anna ran a tavern—The Mermaid’s Tail, known for transitioning seamlessly between respectable operations during the day and downright debauchery at night—and the notable lack of merchants and tourists these days was becoming a real problem. She couldn’t entirely blame them for not wanting to be swallowed whole by a serpent, but that didn’t stop her from resenting the tragically empty tavern beds and the absence of the new, interesting characters that so often flowed through Alicante.

To add insult to injury on this particular day, Charles Fairchild had come by for lunch with Ariadne earlier, and Anna had been unfortunately present, having been chatting up one of the barmaids. She had half a mind to ban him to avoid future interactions, but she knew that would not go over well. Anyone with any sort of status or notoriety in Alicante came frequently to The Mermaid’s Tail—a fact she was quite proud of—and thus she knew that Charles would not tolerate being shut out of so many networking opportunities.

So, stewing in frustration, she’d taken her sorry self down to the seashore for a calming walk.

So far, she was not feeling particularly calmed. Every time she looked out at the ocean, she recalled the sea monster problem, and she was not keen to think on that for any great length of time. Cursing under her breath, she increased her pace. The wind caught at her short hair, whipping it into her eyes, as she approached the caves.

This was better. The faster she walked, the more it felt almost as if she was at sea, skating along in the salt air with the sound of the water all around her. So caught up was she in this feeling, she didn’t see the creature until it was upon her.

Then it was only chaos—slimy limbs, scales, a guttural cry—and Anna stumbled forwards, throwing the creature off her as she fell into the surf.

The creature was on her again in an instant, dragging her backwards into the water. She caught a glimpse of a sharp, protruding beak and a hard, turtle-like shell, and then her face was plunged sideways into the waves and all she could see was gray.

Her eyes stung; water filled her throat. She scrabbled for a grip on the creature, but it was too unwieldy—she could not tell where its limbs began and ended. For a single moment of pure panic, she wondered if this was seriously how she was going to die—and then, just as suddenly as the creature had appeared, it was gone.

Anna shoved her hands against the sandy ocean floor, pushing herself upright. Blinking water out of her eyes, she looked around wildly for the creature. She heard a splash behind her and turned, stumbling to her feet. There it was: being tossed about by the surf in a great pool of dark blood. Beside it, staring at Anna with wild eyes, floated a mermaid.

Anna knew she was a mermaid because her tail, a deep bronze color, was clearly visible, whipping back and forth in the surf as she tried to keep her torso upright. Also because she was quite beautiful—she had long, dark red hair that hung heavily over her brown skin. Perhaps most notably of all, she carried a sword. It was gold-colored, and it dripped with blood as she held it aloft over the water.

Anna wondered if she should be more shocked by the whole spectacle. But in truth, there wasn’t much that could shock Anna Lightwood, so she simply blinked at the mermaid and said, “Hello.”

The mermaid blinked back at her. “Hello,” she responded, a little breathlessly. Then she glanced down. Anna followed her gaze to the sea monster’s awful, reptilian corpse.

“Horrid, isn’t it?” Anna said. The mermaid met her gaze again and nodded. Her dark eyes were still rather wide.

“Are you alright?” she asked Anna.

“Oh, quite,” Anna responded airily, running an experimental hand through her wet hair. She probably looked a right mess; she would need to find a way to change before a single soul saw her in town. “And yourself?”

The girl nodded mutely. Something about the situation had clearly distressed her greatly, which Anna found rather touching.

“I’ve never met a mermaid before,” Anna noted. “I must say, you’ve made an excellent first impression. You have just saved my life, as I’m sure you know.” She inclined her head to the mermaid. “If there’s anything I can do to return the favor, by all means, do tell.”

Something lit up behind the mermaid’s eyes. She glanced down at the monster again, and then at the distant shape of Alicante off to her right. Then she looked back at Anna, eyebrows furrowed in determination.

“Actually,” she said, “Yes. If you don’t mind, I could really use your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos/comments are greatly appreciated...tell me ur thoughts/fears/hopes!
> 
> This is going to be primarily Thomastair, but I have a deep, deep love of the TLH cast and also no self-control whatsoever, so other things might happen along the way.
> 
> I will update as frequently as possible! :)


	2. Clashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get this to you earlier, but it became a crazy week! More soon, I promise.
> 
> Thank you so much for the love on the last chapter—it really pushed me forward. I was sailing on the winds of your encouragement! (Stay tuned for more bad nautical metaphors.)
> 
> Also, please note the new archive warning. I wasn't sure what ao3 counts as graphic, but I wanted to be safe. In general, there won't be any worse violence than what one expects from a TSC book!

خاموش وصف بحر و در كم گوي در درياي او  
خواهي كه غواصي كني دم دارشو دم دارشو

_Hush! Silence the description of the sea and float within its depths  
If you want to learn to dive, grow fins! grow fins!_

— Rumi, _Awake! Enter the Cave!_

Cordelia had been gone a long time.

Alastair was trying not to let this fact turn him into a storm incarnate. Sona, his mother, had already given up this particular battle. She was swimming stiffly back and forth in the underwater cave they had made their temporary home—one hand on her heavily pregnant belly, the other feeling along the stone wall as she went, as though to steady herself. Her dark hair followed her movements with the frenetic energy of a fast current.

Alastair himself floated just at the edge of the cave. For Sona’s sake, he was pretending that everything was fine. Still, he held a long spear in one hand, which probably didn’t do much for the air of calm he was trying to project.

 _Mâdar._ He let the word float between them, speaking it from his mind into his mother’s as gently as he could. _She is going to be fine. There must not be many fish to catch out there, that’s all. They’re afraid, so they’re hiding, like we are._

Cordelia had gone hunting. Normally, this was something Alastair would have done with her, but they had taken to going to great lengths to avoid leaving Sona alone. Both Carstairs children were, after all, quite capable of defending themselves solo, while their mother was now so far along in her pregnancy that there wasn’t much she’d stand a chance against.

If Alastair could choose, he’d be the only one of them venturing out alone in such dangerous waters. But he rather suspected that if he tried to enforce such a rule, Cordelia would strangle him with his own tail.

Sona shot him a look. _Is that supposed to make me feel better, Alastair? They are right to hide._

She had a point. Alastair felt the careful facade of his calm falter for a moment, and their combined nervousness crackled between them like lightning through the water.

 _I could go look for her,_ he suggested. _I don’t want to leave you alone, but I would go._

Sona frowned, pausing her ceaseless back-and-forth swim. Her eyes, when they met Alastair’s, were haunted. _You would go,_ she echoed, _and so both of my children swim straight into the jaws of the monster? No, Alastair. You cannot._

It was an impossible situation, he understood. There was not a world in which the idea of splitting up filled him with anything other than dread. But if Cordelia did not return soon, he would have no other choice.

None of this would be a problem at all, of course, if Elias was still with them. Alastair didn’t regret that they’d left him—he only regretted that his father had given them such cause to do so.

He had been utterly shocked when his mother had made the call, especially given her pregnancy, but some things, it seemed, were dealbreakers. Elias, of the four of them, had always been the most keen on spending time on land. It was something they could all do—grow legs, if necessary—but Sona and her children considered it a means to an end, only for emergencies or special occasions. Alastair had a very short list of outings he deemed acceptable excuses to use the legs: visits to bookstores or libraries, missions to collect newspapers, and any chance he could get to play the piano. Cordelia’s list was a bit longer, but he knew that she, like him and their mother, much preferred the sea.

It went beyond preference, actually. Alastair did not believe that he had much choice in the matter at all. Every time he spent more than a few hours on land, he felt nothing short of awful by the end: like he was ready to claw his own skin off, or hurl himself off a seaside cliff just to feel the water cradle him in its arms again.

He did not understand his father. He knew it had something to do with the alcohol—only available to Elias on land, of course—but he thought it was something more than that, too. Elias wanted to stay there, on that other terrain, and he resented his family for not feeling the same way. It didn’t matter much now. He’d made his choice, and they’d left him in Dublin, the last place they’d touched shore. Left him to a lifestyle none of them would ever want, and fled into the depths of the Irish Sea.

This was where the problem had begun. In retrospect, those early encounters with monsters should have warned them they were heading into dangerous territory, but Sona had—understandably—assumed that she had simply erred in bringing them into the deep ocean, and that the situation would improve if they neared shore again. So she’d led them to Alicante, a port town on the west coast of England.

It was not far—and it was a place they’d lived before, for a year or two, when Alastair was thirteen or so. It was a sensible choice for a new home.

But the danger had only increased as they moved. Suddenly, monsters were everywhere: so unavoidable that Cordelia and Alastair took to bringing their weapons with them wherever they went; so numerous that Alastair thought he’d seen more of them than he had regular sea creatures in the last two weeks.

Now, they could see that _Alicante_ was the problem. For some godforsaken reason, what seemed like the world’s entire population of sea monsters had congregated here. In fact, this explained the black-headed serpents and fifteen-foot otter-like creatures they had encountered in the Irish Sea—there were monsters all around England’s coast now, forming a terrifying wall between Alicante and the open ocean.

 _Perhaps she found other merfolk,_ Sona suggested. She didn’t sound like she believed it. The last time they’d lived here, there had been a small but thriving community of others like them. They had not caught even one glimpse of that community since arriving this time around; Alastair did not want to think about where they might’ve gone.

 _Perhaps,_ he echoed. Silence settled between them. A distant, low sound stretched out through the water: a sort of rumbling, keening noise, like the call of a faraway creature. Alastair might not have caught it, if his ears weren’t so used to interpreting the strange music of the ocean.

His gaze met Sona’s. _A whale,_ he offered. He knew it wasn't true, and he could see in her eyes that she knew the same.

 _Alastair,_ she said, and then stopped. The gills on her neck fluttered noticeably. _Alastair joon. It has been a very long time. I think—_

 _I’ll go,_ he said, immediately. _Don’t think on it anymore. But will you be safe?_

She gave him a long, weary look. _I’ll be fine,_ she assured him. _But you, Alastair?_ She crossed the cave to his side. _You must be careful. You must return to me._

 _I will, mâmân._ He ducked out of reach as she made to touch his hair, then used his tail to push himself backwards out of the cave. As she watched him with tired eyes, he tossed his spear from one hand to the other and offered her a smile he did not feel. _I’ll be back soon,_ he promised. She nodded once, and then he was gone.

—

Cordelia tended to move closer to shore when she went hunting, so Alastair set off in that general direction.

He figured it was safest to hover somewhere between the surface—where he risked running into human ships and any monsters aiming to terrorize them—and the ocean floor, which was the preferred domain of some particularly nasty pieces of work. Unfortunately, this middle-ground happened to be his least favorite place to swim. He could not see the floor beneath him, nor the surface above him: the world was all dim blue-gray, and nothing else. 

Normally, he’d have found this boring, at best. Now, it filled him with a deep sense of unease. He knew, rationally, that if anything approached him he’d be able to see it from a mile off—but right now, he felt keenly his unawareness of his surroundings. There could be any number of dangers lurking above or below him, and he would not know.

It didn’t help that he’d yet to see a living creature of _any_ sort since leaving the cave. This was not the ocean he knew and loved: his infinite world teeming with vibrant, diverse forms of life. This was a dead thing. This was a place that was deeply, deeply afraid.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and his heart leapt into his throat, but it was just a pack of porbeagle sharks. They sped past him, flanks moving with the same rippling pattern. Alastair felt sick with relief to see them. He liked sharks—liked their no-nonsense approach to life at sea. He was glad to know some here were still alive.

He was half-tempted to join them, but they were nearly out of sight now—moving much more quickly than usual, he noted—and anyway, it was hard to say whether integrating himself with the pack would be a good choice for his safety. Probably best to stay as inconspicuous as possible, which was easier done by oneself.

There was a ripple through the water around him. It was very slight, but noticeable enough to stop him in his tracks—almost as though the current had briefly switched directions, or something had disturbed it. He held still, hovering in the middle of his empty blue world. The ripple did not repeat itself.

But then he heard it. The _noise,_ the strange, distant groan he’d heard with his mother. Much to his alarm, it did not sound quite so distant now.

Alastair sent a series of quick glances in every direction, making sure he was still alone. He appeared to be, but he did not _feel_ alone. 

It wasn’t something he could quite put his finger on. An inexplicable sense of a presence. He stared down into the endless dark depths below him, waiting for another sound. He could hear nothing but the roaring of his own pulse in his ears.

His eyes registered the shape appearing from the shadows before his brain did. A small, pale thing at first, rapidly growing in size as it rocketed towards him. 

Alastair’s heart jumped in his chest. He only had time to tighten his grip on his spear, and then the creature was upon him.

It was not a monster. It was a mermaid. Alastair caught one glimpse of wide eyes in a pale face, and then a hand closed around his left wrist, jerking him upward, and they were flying.

For a moment, he was so shocked that he simply let himself be pulled. Then he heard a voice in his head. _Move, you idiot!_ it hissed.

Alastair did not need to be told twice. He began to swim beside her, whipping his tail as fast as it would go to keep up. The girl was still gripping his wrist tightly—she seemed to have some idea where she was going, so he would tolerate this for now. She had angled them diagonally, so they were speeding closer to shore at the same time that they neared the surface.

Alastair felt, rather than heard, something behind them. He chanced a glance over his shoulder, and looked straight into a pair of silvery, reflective eyes.

If he could’ve sworn aloud, he would’ve. Teuthida demons were notoriously fast swimmers. This one was moving through the water with an odd grace, considering its unwieldy shape. As he watched, it reached for them with one of its many dark tentacles.

Alastair hissed and slashed at it with his spear. It snatched the tentacle back with a low cry that rumbled through the water, but didn’t stop. If anything, it was chasing them even faster now, its mirror-like eyes zeroed in on their fleeing forms.

They were not, Alastair realized, going to be able to out-swim this thing. Twisting his wrist out of the mermaid’s grasp, he said to her, _Wait._

She sent him a confused glance, but he was already whipping around to face the demon.

Dimly, he was aware of her voice protesting in his head, but it was definitely too late to make a different choice. He held his spear in front of him with a grimace as the demon advanced upon him.

He managed one slash to its body—deep purplish blood spilled into the water around it—before it wrapped two of its tentacles around the shaft of his spear. Alastair was tugged toward the creature. Panic lanced through him. If he let go of the spear, he wouldn’t stand a chance, but the demon’s grip was too tight to win it back—

A blur of color arced through his peripheral vision, and then the water exploded with dark blood. Alastair glanced wildly to the side in time to see the mermaid jerk back her weapon, a silver trident, as the teuthida demon released a horrible guttural cry. Its grip on Alastair’s spear loosened, and then it fell away from them.

They both watched as it sank further and further, trailing blood behind it, before it was finally swallowed up by the shadows of the deep.

Alastair turned to the mermaid.

She was young: maybe a few years older than him. Her coral-colored tail and tawny hair both flowed in the direction of the current as she floated, the trident clutched tightly in her left hand. It was a rather intimidating weapon, which Alastair appreciated.

 _That was so stupid,_ she observed. But she was smiling, a little bemusedly.

Alastair shrugged. _It was going to catch us,_ he replied. _I was watching it._

 _Fair enough._ She jerked her chin up toward the surface. _Shall we relocate? I prefer real talking._

Alastair had been trying to avoid the surface, but since the mermaid had technically just saved his life, he figured he could cooperate for a few minutes. 

He couldn’t help but wince at the first touch of open air, blinking water out of his eyes as bright sunlight assaulted his senses. It always felt to him how he imagined cold water felt to humans: a brief shock to the system, which would get more comfortable the longer he tolerated it. The difference, of course, was that Alastair could breathe in this element as well as he could underwater. It was just a bit of an adjustment.

“Mm,” the mermaid hummed, wiping hair out of her eyes. “That’s much better.”

Alastair didn’t exactly agree, but he knew where she was coming from—he didn’t like to go too long without using his vocal chords. There was something satisfying about the sensation of them, particularly when singing. As he saw it, that was the only real advantage of land-dwelling: humans had created music, and in doing so, discovered their own unique form of magic.

“Thank you,” he told her. “For trying to remove me from the path of danger.” He smiled wryly. “I’m sorry I thwarted that effort.”

She waved him off with her free hand. “No, I’m glad you did. We could do with one less of those freaks moving about.” She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Who are you? You’re not local.”

“My name is Alastair Carstairs,” Alastair replied. “And no, I’m not. My family only just moved into the area, although we’ve lived here before.”

She nodded. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Alastair Carstairs, but are you and your family out of your minds?”

Alastair’s first instinct was to bristle, but he firmly squashed it, sucking a slow breath in through his nose. After all, it was a fair question. “We didn’t know,” he explained, shortly. 

“Well,” she said. “In that case, I’m sorry. It hasn’t exactly been a warm welcome, has it?”

She gestured widely to their surroundings. Alastair frowned. “Where are the other merfolk?” he asked. “You’re the first we’ve seen.”

Her expression darkened. “Where do you think?” she replied. “Dead. Hiding. A few tried to leave, but I doubt they made it far.”

Alastair had the same feeling. He and his family had barely made it here in one piece—and the monsters had only grown in number since they’d arrived. Trying to escape now would almost certainly be a death sentence. 

“All we can do,” the mermaid said slowly, “is wait it out.” She was gazing into the distance over Alastair’s shoulder now, as though contemplating something deeply. Alastair frowned at her.

“Wait for what?” he asked, dryly. “For the monsters to up and disappear?”

“For that,” she said, and pointed a finger at where she’d been looking. Alastair turned: behind him, far in the distance, was the silhouette of a ship. 

He turned back to meet her gaze, bemused. “Humans?”

“That’s the Navy,” she explained, with a grin. “They don’t like this any more than we do—monsters take down ships, too, you know. So they come out every day to hunt them.”

Alastair turned again to watch the shape of the ship; it was growing rapidly in size, as though headed directly toward them at great speed. Even from here, he could see how massive it would be up close: truly, a ship made for war. 

“Do they?” he asked, lightly. “Somehow, this knowledge doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

He could feel her frowning at him. “Why not?”

Alastair shrugged, looking back over his shoulder at her. “When have humans ever had our best interests at heart?”

“They don’t,” she acknowledged, with a nod. “They still don’t. It’s just that this time around, our interests happen to align with theirs.” She smiled thinly. “Infested waters are bad for business.”

Alastair looked back at the ship. It was close enough, now, that he could make out the Union Jack waving proudly above the tallest mast. 

“This is good news, Alastair Carstairs,” the mermaid said. “Let yourself have it.” She huffed out a breath. “God knows there’s enough bad news to be had these days.”

Alastair could feel vibrations through the water now; could see white-and-navy shapes moving back and forth on the ship’s deck. “We should go below,” he said.

“If you want.” She slipped beneath the waves without another word. Alastair sent one more glance at the ship, and then followed her.

She had moved a considerable distance down—Alastair swam even further down past her, just to be safe. She gave him an amused look. 

_What are you doing out and about, anyway, Alastair Carstairs?_

_Looking for my sister,_ he told her, and his stomach lurched. Cordelia had been gone for an hour, and it’d taken him maybe twenty minutes to find trouble—who knew what she might run into? _She went hunting and was due back by now. My mother and I were worried._

 _Ah,_ the mermaid said, and gave him a sympathetic look that he did not like one bit. 

_She’s going to be fine,_ he snapped. _She’s the best fighter I know. And_ —he struggled to cool his tone down— _and she has a powerful sword._

 _I’m sure you’ll find her, then,_ the mermaid responded, in a distressingly gentle voice. Alastair wondered how many loved ones she’d lost since this all began, and felt a rush of guilt for snapping at her.

 _Thank you,_ he said, awkwardly. 

She tilted her head at him, gazing down at him from above. _You said something about your mother?_

 _Yes._ He swallowed. _It’s just the three of us. My mother is pregnant, so we don’t like to leave her alone. In fact, I should—I should keep looking for Cordelia, so that we can return to her—_

 _I’ll help you,_ the mermaid said.

He stared at her, flabbergasted. _Really?_

She smiled. _I know these waters well. And besides, it’s far better for our kind to travel in groups. We’re easier picked off when we’re alone._

Alastair blinked at her, overwhelmed. _I—I don’t know how to thank you._

She shrugged. _You’ll return the favor someday, I’m sure._ The water around them had begun to ripple; she glanced up and over Alastair’s shoulder. Alastair turned to see the dark bottom of the Navy ship approaching them—a massive, gliding creature of its own.

 _Anyway,_ she added, head tilted up as she watched its steady progression, _you’ve already done me a favor just by existing. It’s been terribly long since I had company._ She looked back down at him and grinned. _And I like to talk! Solitude’s a bloody nightmare for someone like me._

It struck Alastair that if she preferred moving in groups, and his own group was in desperate need of a fourth member, it might not be entirely outrageous to ask her if she’d like to join them. He was struggling to think of a way to broach the subject, watching her from below as the ship soared overhead, and so he saw the exact moment she glanced to the side and her expression changed.

 _What’s that?_ she asked, in a distantly alarmed sort of tone. Alastair followed her gaze.

Something was sweeping through the water towards them. It was a ghostly, silvery sort of shape—at first glance, it looked almost like an errant current. By the time he realized what it actually was, it was quite close.

His blood went cold.

The mermaid’s panicked voice rang through his head. _DOWN, Alastair!_ she cried. _Go DOWN!_ His tail was a step ahead of his brain; he was already swimming desperately toward the ocean floor. He felt his fins whip against something sharp and looked wildly behind him: he had just managed to clear the net, and it had swept past him.

The mermaid had not been so lucky. Alastair stared in horror as she changed course and made a break for the left side, just as the edge of the net cleared the surface of the water, trapping her. She floundered for a moment, wide-eyed, as Alastair darted up to her.

 _Shit, shit, shit,_ he hissed, reaching for the nearest length of rope. It was a strange, shimmery silver color—not like any rope he’d ever seen. Not thinking, he grabbed onto it with his free hand, and cried out in pain.

Red blood burst into the water around him. The mermaid stared at him as he drew his hand back, examining the deep gash on his palm. _They’re sharp,_ he said, his own voice coming to him as though from a distance. _The rope is made of something sharp, I don’t know what—_

The net began to move. Their eyes met, and Alastair realized with a surge of dread that it was closing in around her on both sides. There was nothing for it; he reached for the rope again, grabbing it in his already injured left hand. With his right, he brought his spear down on it, hoping to cut through it. A few strands severed, but the rope was still quite whole. Cursing, he brought the spear down again and again. His left hand smarted, clouding the water in front of him bright red. 

_Alastair._ The mermaid’s voice was thick with fear. He glanced up. Someone must be lifting the net from above; she had her trident braced against it on one side and her hand on the other, like she could prevent it from wrapping her in its vicious grip. He brought his spear down once more and the length of rope snapped at last, but it did not make a hole big enough for the mermaid to fit through—that would take ages, at this rate.

She cried out; Alastair’s stomach clenched in horror as the net dug into her arms and tail, releasing more streams of red into the water. Giving up on the spear, he shoved it into the crook of his arm and grabbed either side of the hole he had made, pulling with all of his strength. It did not budge. If Cordelia was here, he couldn’t help but think—if this was Cordelia, and not him—she had Cortana, and Cortana could cut through _anything—_

 _Alastair._ Alastair did not want to look up, but he did: the net had closed around his new friend and was lifting her up out of the water, while he clung on for dear life. There were open cuts on her face, on her arms, on her tail. Still, she looked suddenly quite calm, though her eyes were hollow. _You must go._

 _Absolutely not,_ he hissed. _Here, if you—if you pass me your trident, that could work—_

_We have almost broken the surface,_ she said. _Alastair—_

She froze. Her eyes widened; her mouth opened in a silent scream. Alastair felt a bolt of utter terror lance through him, just as the water exploded with red.

He didn’t even realize that he’d let go of the net—didn’t realize he was drifting down, away from her. All he was aware of, as the seconds moved past him like a slow current, was the spear head sticking out of her chest.

The net finished its ascent, and then she was gone. And then the ship, too, was gone, and all that remained was Alastair, floating numbly beneath the lingering shape of their spilled blood.

—

“We’re getting closer,” James said. “I can feel it.”

Thomas, standing guard by the ship’s compass a few feet away, sent a nervous glance behind him at the distant shore. They were headed away from it at a rapid pace; soon, it would disappear from view entirely.

As though reading his thoughts, James gave him a sidelong look. “It’s alright, Tom,” he said. He glanced behind them as well, a gust of wind ruffling the black hair that spilled from his hat onto his forehead. “We won’t have to go much further, I should think.”

“Don’t concern yourself,” Thomas responded, with more confidence than he felt. He shifted his weight on the deck, wooden boards creaking under his feet. “It’s only that I won’t know our latitude once the shore is out of sight.”

“I know.” James’s gold eyes paused their scan of the horizon to meet his. “Do you think we should give it up for today? Is it too big a risk?”

Thomas shrugged. “It will always be possible, in theory, to find our way back. We’ll remain west of the shore, more or less.” He gestured to the compass, mounted upon a gimbal beside him. He could feel James’s eyes on him. “It just makes me a little nervous, is all.”

They stood together on the ship’s quarter-deck. James had both hands wrapped around spokes of the enormous steering wheel, but Thomas suspected it was more to ground him than anything else. James did not actually use the steering wheel, preferring to tap into his friendship with the ocean to guide them through its treacherous waters. The quarter-deck, given its elevated placement at the rear of the ship, allowed him a good view of the sea and the sails at once. This also made it Thomas’s preferred perch: most of the best navigation could be done from here.

“Well,” James said quietly, “I think you may be right to be nervous.” He sent Thomas another glance, this time with a quick smile that spoke of mischief. “It’s a right nasty beast we’re chasing, here, Tom.”

Today, they were after a kraken—a particularly vicious one that had taken down a few merchant ships last week. James had sensed it moving about in this general area the last time they’d been out hunting. He could usually feel disturbances in the water, but it was unusual for him to be able to pick one out over such a long distance—which meant that this kraken was either exceptionally large, or notable in some other, equally horrible way.

Thomas felt a strange mixture of dread and excitement at the thought. The two different sorts of anticipation mingled uncomfortably in his stomach, but they energized him all the same. He quite liked these missions. He liked spending time with his friends. He liked being their navigator: an important job that made him feel needed and capable in a way he never had growing up. Most of all, though, he liked the ocean. The sort of freedom one felt in the open sea, completely unmoored from one’s life on land, was unlike anything else Thomas had experienced in his eighteen years of life. 

It was true that these days, this exercise had been shot through with a distinct undercurrent of danger. But it seemed to Thomas that he and his friends—aboard the The Shadow Hunter, a small, black-painted ship they’d bought and renovated together years ago—were ideally equipped to go toe-to-toe with whatever the sea decided to throw at them. 

Thomas, for one, was a more than competent navigator. He’d had a stellar sense of direction since he was very young, and he approached his work on The Shadow Hunter with the same focus and thoughtfulness he applied to everything in his life. He was committed to his craft, and he even had a tattoo of a compass rose to show for it—although, contrary to what he’d let his friends believe, the design had personal significance beyond its obvious ties to his role on the ship.

Then there was Thomas’s cousin, Christopher, currently lurking in the captain’s quarters somewhere beneath Thomas’s feet. A mad genius by all rights, Christopher had lately spent his time dreaming up new, creative methods of battling sea monsters. He also, notably, claimed to be immune to sirens—something he’d apparently discovered by encountering them on a solo outing years ago—but it was hard to know what to believe with Christopher, who was often lost in his own brain. It was just as likely that he’d encountered a group of mermaids and gotten mixed up. (Thomas himself had, memorably and mortifyingly, made this exact error years ago).

James, their driving force and their secret weapon, ran the show. They’d made it official when they voted him captain, but in some sense, he’d always been the leader of their little group. Matthew often said that the life of a ship captain was clearly James’s calling. Beside him now, James stood straight-backed and calm, with all the unshakable elegance of a ship gliding through the water. His coat—they all wore long coats, but James’s reached nearly to his ankles—fluttered behind his still form like a shadow with a mind of its own. In the wind and the sun, he made a dramatic, high contrast picture: all black velvet, tousled dark hair and the shine of golden eyes under the shadow cast by the front point of his hat. 

“Oy!” a voice called from above. James and Thomas looked up, squinting into the sunlight, at the shape of Matthew Fairchild clinging to the rafters. He had a habit of climbing them to get a better look at their surroundings, even though it was dangerous—and mostly unnecessary, given James’s oceanic intuition. “Did you see that, Jamie?” he shouted now.

“See what, Math?” James called back, as Matthew scrambled gracefully back down the ropes. He stumbled to the deck and righted himself with a grin, adjusting his hat on his sunshine-blond head.

“Something popped out of the water just now,” he declared, as though imparting a bit of particularly juicy gossip. “All the way out… _there.”_ He pointed southwest, to the upper left of their ship. “It was small, granted, but I saw it.”

James had closed his eyes, as though to better commune with the sea. “I can’t feel anything. Are you sure?”

“On my honor,” Matthew said. “Or what’s left of it.” As he spoke, he sauntered across the deck towards them, squinting up at their elevated perch. 

“Perhaps it was a dolphin,” Thomas suggested.

Matthew nodded sagely. “Indeed, perhaps. Perhaps it was a dolphin. Perhaps it was a school of dolphins.” He paused to remove a small rum bottle from inside his coat. “Perhaps it was a beautiful mermaid come to confess her secret love to one or more of us.” He uncorked the bottle and took a long drink, meeting Thomas’s gaze over it with twinkling eyes. “Perhaps,” he said, finishing, “it is a kraken. Perhaps even this most wicked of krakens we so nobly seek to kill.”

James hummed. Thomas turned to see that he still had his eyes closed. “I feel nothing of note,” he said, “but I believe you, and I can’t be sure, anyhow. We’ll have a look.”

“Righto, Captain,” Matthew said. He took one more swig of his rum, then corked the bottle and tucked it back into his pocket. Thomas watched his gaze travel thoughtfully along the southern horizon.

Even the smallest of ships needed a First Mate, and Matthew had been James’s right-hand man since nearly the moment they met. More of a partner-in-crime than a subordinate, he was James’s closest confidante and fiercest supporter in kind. Perhaps most importantly, he brought good spirit and fiery enthusiasm to every task the crew undertook.

“Ah,” Matthew said now, and pointed. “Spotted—bilge rats.” 

Thomas turned to see the shape of a large ship in the distance to their left. It appeared to be sailing away from them, in the direction of the shore.

“Classy, Math,” James remarked.

“I believe the proper term is sail ho,” Thomas noted. “Unless you’re looking for a way to specifically denote the Navy.”

Matthew cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, I’ve a number of ideas for Navy-specific calls. But I won’t share them, to save your innocent ears.”

He hopped up on the nearest crate, as though to better watch the ship pass. His eyes were narrowed; Thomas could well imagine what he was thinking. 

When Alicante had called its young men to arms, Thomas and his little crew of friends had jumped at the chance to help. They spent almost all their time out on the ocean anyways—they cared to make it a safe place again. 

But they were not as eager to work with the British Navy, which had a reputation for strict leadership and obnoxious self-importance. For Matthew, the issue was personal: his older brother, with whom he did not remotely get along, was a Naval Captain.

From the start, Matthew had made an effort to set himself and his friends apart from his brother’s domain. Their small, dark, secondhand ship made them look pretty alternative already, as did the size of their crew, which they could only get away with because James controlled the ship’s movement entirely on his own. In the weeks since the problem had begun, they’d managed to build on the notoriety they already had about town: they'd gone from a well-liked group of rowdy young sailors to a well-respected crew of monster-killers. They’d also, to Matthew’s great satisfaction, earned outward disapproval from the Navy, who didn’t like their free-spirited ways and deeply distrusted James’s magic.

Thomas rather suspected that if Matthew had his way, they’d have gone an extra mile and then some. There’d be a skull and crossbones on their mainsail, or something else equally outrageous, and they’d all be dressed in the most elaborate costumes Matthew could find for them. Matthew himself never failed to deliver in this regard: currently, he wore a deep emerald silk velvet suit with silver-trimmed buttonholes. His jacket was open, revealing a burnt orange waistcoat embroidered with a dense floral pattern in metal thread. His white shirt, beneath it, sported spectacular ruffles at the chest and wrists. His silk stockings, below his breeches, matched the suit, and his shoe buckles were set with gems. They all wore tricorn hats, best for keeping away the elements, but Matthew’s was twice the size of his head and adorned in silver lace. As Thomas watched, he hopped down from his perch and reached up to adjust it.

“Looks as though they’re headed back to shore,” he observed. “Done for the day, perhaps.”

James frowned up at the sky. “It can’t be long past noon.”

“No, indeed,” Matthew agreed. “Bloody landlubbers.”

Thomas turned to gaze after the ship’s retreating form. “Perhaps they found something and are off to report it?”

“What sort of thing?” James asked. 

Matthew hummed thoughtfully. “Charles says they’ve begun bringing dead monsters back to shore. For analysis of some sort, I gather. You may be right, Tom.”

“I don’t know what they could hope to gain from analysis.” James was still frowning. “Anyway, they’re wasting their time if they don’t get Christopher in on it.”

Matthew snorted. “Try telling that to my brother. He doesn’t want us anywhere near his heroic efforts, I promise you.”

A loud bang echoed somewhere below Thomas. He and James exchanged an alarmed glance, and then the door to the captain’s quarters burst open and Christopher spilled out.

“Kit!” Matthew exclaimed, as Christopher rushed past him, clutching a large spherical device in both arms. “Speak of the devil! What on earth are you up to?”

Christopher, who had reached the opposite side of the deck and was rummaging around in a crate with his free hand, said, “Just a moment!” He set his device carefully on the ground to better rummage. Thomas noted that he was missing his hat, and his face was covered in smudges of what looked like soot. 

Matthew strode across the deck toward him. “Is that the project you’ve been spending so much time on?” he asked. “Is it done?”

“Nearly!” Christopher said, as Matthew lifted the device to examine it. It was a sphere of metal, with metal rods protruding on all sides.

“Heavy,” Matthew observed. “What’s it for, dropping on unsuspecting skulls?”

“It’s a bomb!” Christopher said cheerfully, and Matthew started. 

“Good lord.” He gingerly returned the device to its resting place and backed away a pace. “That’s all well, then.” He turned to look at James and Thomas. “A bomb on a ship! What could possibly go wrong?”

“Nothing, if you haven’t lit the fuse,” Christopher responded, unperturbed. He had produced a tool Thomas did not recognize, and was using it to carefully toy with a hole in his device.

“But we do plan to,” Matthew said, slowly. “Light the fuse, I mean. On this ship.”

“Indeed we do!” Christopher confirmed.

Matthew nodded, amusement and vague horror warring on his face. “Just clarifying.”

James looked intrigued. “Will it explode in the water, Kit?”

“It should.” Christopher wore a small, satisfied smile. He lifted the device and pointed to the hole he’d been tinkering with. “The fuse is in there. I will light it by dropping a match through here, cap the opening, and toss it out to sea. The gunpowder should stay dry that way.”

“Right,” Thomas said. “Then it’s just a matter of making sure it doesn’t blow early. Or land too close to us in the water.”

“Exactly!” Christopher agreed, as though neither of these were pressing concerns. 

James met Thomas’s gaze. “That should be fine,” he said. “We can do it when the kraken is in sight, but not yet upon us.”

The nervous excitement swelled—Thomas felt almost as though he might be sick. Between the kraken and the bomb, they could easily be sunk today.

But they’d need a big gun to face a big monster, and Christopher had provided them with exactly that. Besides, Thomas trusted his cousin. He may be rather disaster-prone, but he was very good at what he did, and he always pulled through when it mattered.

Thomas felt James stiffen beside him. He turned to see that his friend had closed his eyes again. “I just sensed something,” he said.

“What is it?” Matthew asked. He glanced out at the sea. “We haven’t reached the spot I pointed out yet, have we?”

James lifted his hands, as though to conduct an orchestra, and then froze again. “It’s a pack of something. Dolphins, sharks. Or merfolk, I suppose—or sirens. Bigger than fish, but not that big. I can feel the shape of them. They’re surrounding us.”

Thomas stepped to the edge of the ship, peering overboard. For a moment, all he could see was dark waves and streams of white rushing past, and then he caught a glimpse of a face. His heart stuttered in his chest.

“Merfolk or sirens,” he confirmed, breathlessly. 

“Alright,” James said. “Let’s not wait around to discover which it is. Cuff yourselves.” He started down the steps to the main deck. Thomas followed him, heart still pounding an exhilarated rhythm.

James headed straight for the chains they’d set up, bolted into the ground so that they could handcuff themselves to the deck in such a scenario. They’d never actually had to use them before—siren sightings were extremely rare, even in these newly dangerous waters.

Thomas and James knelt together as Matthew crossed to them; the chains were short, and would barely allow them to sit up, let alone stand. Thomas let James close one of the cuffs around his right wrist, and as he went to return the favor, Christopher said, “James, wait. Toss me your keys, would you?”

James turned to stare at Christopher. “What? Why?”

“Somebody has to free you, correct? I already told you I’m immune to sirens.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Matthew said. “You were serious about that? I thought that was a load of tosh!”

“James.” Christopher cast a nervous glance out to the sea. “Trust me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, James nodded. He removed the ring of keys and handed them off to Christopher, as Thomas finished closing the cuff around his wrist. 

“Well,” Matthew said, crouching down beside them, “for all our sakes, Kit, I hope you’re right.”

“I would never—” Christopher started, and then froze. A moment later, Thomas understood why: there was a sound rising over the water. It was a sweet, keening noise, like the cry of an anguished creature.

“Oh,” Matthew said, softly. It was not music, exactly, and it was not beautiful—it was strange and otherworldly and utterly haunting. As it washed over Thomas, his mind went blank. 

In the blankness, a memory came to him. Himself as a child, sitting in his bedroom. He felt, as though he was really there, the oppressiveness of the stuffy air. The blankets atop his legs weighed him down, threatening to send him spiraling through the floor. It was dim, and Thomas could do nothing but stare at the wall across from him. The wall, with the dull beige wallpaper Thomas had never liked. He had the sense that he had been trapped here for many days, and that he would remain for many days more.

Then something drifted to him. A smell of salt, of fresh air. He glanced to the side to see his bedroom window, cracked open. Outside of it was the sea.

Thomas opened his eyes—when he had closed them, he wasn’t sure—and sat bolt upright. He glanced wildly to the side, at the nearest edge of the ship. _The sea,_ he thought, and made to scramble to his feet.

Something tugged on his arm, and he fell hard against the deck. Lifting his head, he gazed in horror at the cuff around his wrist. _No,_ he thought, panic swelling in his chest. _No._ He needed to reach the sea. He _needed_ to. 

He sat up again, and found himself face-to-face with Matthew, who was rising slowly to his feet. Thomas realized with a jolt that Matthew had never put on his own cuff. As he watched, gaping at his friend, Matthew backed up a few paces, as though preparing to jump overboard. Jealousy gripped Thomas so fiercely that he cried out, tugging helplessly on his chain.

Then he heard another cry, and the shape of Christopher flew into view, tackling Matthew to the floor. Matthew grunted indignantly, making to shove him off, but Christopher flattened him with a sharp elbow to his chest. He caught Matthew’s wrist and fastened it before the other boy knew what was happening. As Christopher scrambled to his feet, backing away, Matthew yelled in horror.

“I’m sorry, Matthew,” Christopher called, sounding genuinely distressed. “It’s for your own good.”

Matthew was now cursing Christopher breathlessly, struggling against his chain. Thomas’s wrist had begun to hurt: he was still trying to break free, almost without his own knowledge. 

James, who had remained mostly still until this point, turned his head to the side and blinked at Thomas. There was something deeply unsettling in his gaze—a sort of darkness that Thomas did not at all associate with James. It was so startling that it briefly stalled Thomas’s desperate efforts to escape. He stared at James in alarm.

James lifted his free hand, slowly, gazing down at it with a distant interest. As Thomas watched, he crooked one of his fingers.

A jet of water shot onto the deck, spattering them all. Thomas heard Christopher shout something as he stared at James in astonishment. It had never occurred to him that he hadn’t even _needed_ to jump overboard. James could bring the sea to _them._

James turned his palm upward, curling his fingers as though to hold an invisible object. On all sides, the sea swelled: water rose up around them, hovering in place as though preparing to descend on the ship. In the water, Thomas could see flashes of pale skin and glittering scales. The air was full of the creatures’ strange lament.

“James, _no!”_ Christopher cried.

James tore his gaze from his hand long enough to see Christopher advancing on him, but it was too late. Christopher had a long-bladed sword in his hand, and as Thomas watched in horror, he turned it backwards, knocked James’s hat aside, and thwacked James hard in the head with its hefty hilt.

James slumped wordlessly to the deck. The risen water fell back into the ocean with a tremendous crash, and their ship rose, tilting sickeningly.

Christopher stumbled backwards and fell to the deck, which was slick with salt water. “Damn them to the depths,” he gasped, shoving himself to his feet. He raced across the deck to his device, still sitting where he had left it. He produced a match from nowhere, muttering to himself all the way, struck it, and dropped it into the bomb.

Thomas registered a dull sense of alarm. “What are you doing?” he asked Christopher.

Christopher ignored him. He capped the bomb with shaking but deft fingers and rose again to his feet, holding it. The sirens’ song rose around them, almost in anticipation, as he stepped to the side of the ship and hurled it far overboard.

There was a low, loud bang. Water sprayed up like a geyser, droplets raining down on the four of them. Just as quickly as it had started, the singing stopped.

Christopher stood very still by the edge of the ship, his chest heaving. Slowly, he peered overboard. Thomas blinked at him. The edges of his mind felt fuzzy, as though he was just coming out of a long sleep.

“Christopher?” he called. “What was—what just happened?”

Christopher looked up at him, lilac eyes alight. “They’re gone,” he said, breathlessly. “I do say, Tom. I think that went well.”

Matthew, sitting slumped beside James’s unconscious form, choked on a laugh. “Oh, do you,” he wheezed. “I’d concur, but I’m not barking mad.”

Christopher was grinning from ear-to-ear. “The bomb works,” he declared. “I can make more of them. We’re going to be the savior of the seas.”

“The menace, more like,” Thomas said, but he could not help an answering smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christopher Lightwood is asexual in canon, hence the siren immunity. I have textual evidence if anyone wants to fight me on this.
> 
> I pulled the Rumi quote & translation from a random blog that appeared to be connected to Harvard somehow, so I figured it was at least a little reputable, but please let me know if it's horrifically wrong :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!


	3. Movement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how this one got as long as it did. Everything this project does is entirely out of my control.
> 
> Please enjoy, and THANK YOU for your lovely, lovely comments. You cannot know how much I appreciate them.

_And if I could grasp  
my own fear,  
I'd drown it,  
leave it breathless and blue  
as this ocean,  
as the brilliant backs  
of whales  
surfacing  
for air._

— Brenda Cárdenas, _Song_

It was Cordelia who found Alastair, in the end.

Cordelia who brought him home to their mother—rather than the other way around, as he’d intended. Cordelia who fretted over him, dark eyes wide and worried, as Sona bandaged his hands in seaweed. Alastair would have laughed at how the tables had turned, if he’d had a laugh in him.

Instead, he found he couldn’t do much but let things happen to him. Cordelia stumbling upon him on her way back from shore had been a spectacular stroke of luck; otherwise, he wasn’t sure how long he’d have been out looking for her. After what happened to the mermaid, he’d have torn the whole ocean apart if he had to. But with Cordelia in sight, the horror and the drive had drained from him. Now there was only exhaustion.

The world had settled into a sort of cool numbness. He was dimly aware that he had explained everything to Cordelia as she coaxed him home, and then listened to her repeat what he’d said to Sona as they addressed the bloody mess he’d made of his fingers and palms. Nothing mattered besides these immediate concerns. His hands didn’t hurt so much now, but maybe he was just tired of acknowledging the sensation. 

An unwelcome thought drifted past: _It was my fault she died._ He wasn’t even sure where the conviction came from, only that once it was there, he could not help but acknowledge its validity. If she hadn’t stopped to speak to him, she’d never even have crossed paths with the ship. 

Cordelia looked over their mother and caught his eye. She frowned, as though she’d read his mind. But she only said, _You’re very badly hurt, dâdâsh._ She seemed to hesitate. Her eyes were still trained on his. _You won’t be able to hold a spear._

Alastair shook his head, as though he could clear it of all the dark things it contained. _I’ll be fine._

 _No,_ Cordelia said sadly. _You won’t. Even if you fought through the pain, you won’t be able to properly grip things for awhile. Effectively defending yourself like that would be impossible._

There was a firmness in her expression that made his stomach turn. He knew she was right. _Cordelia,_ he said, slowly. _If I am out of commission, that leaves only you. And you cannot go out alone again._ Panic rose like bile in his throat. _You_ can’t. _I won’t let you._

She pressed her lips together into a determined frown. Alastair knew that look, and he realized with a jolt of dread that he also knew what she was about to say.

 _I may not have to,_ she said. _Alastair, I beg you to reconsider what we’ve discussed._

Alastair gritted his teeth. _I’m not going on land, Cordelia. I will not retreat to the other world like a coward. I will not follow in Father’s footsteps._

 _I understand, dâdâsh._ Cordelia’s gaze was intense, imploring. _I know how you feel about land—I feel the same way. But we have no other choice._

 _We have a choice,_ Alastair said. _That is the beauty of our species, Cordelia, or had you forgotten?_ His lips curled around a sneer. _We can choose the sea, where we belong. Or we can choose to cast aside everything that makes us who we are. We can choose to live a lie. That is not something I want, but I gather it does not matter so much to you._

Cordelia’s eyes flashed. _How can you say that? You think I’d rather spend even a second on land?_

_Children,_ Sona interjected sternly, and Cordelia paused, closing her eyes as though to compose herself. Alastair was a little surprised his mother hadn’t stepped in earlier—either she was exceptionally distressed, or she had a secret allegiance in this argument. He met her gaze questioningly.

 _You know well I wouldn’t,_ Cordelia continued, drawing Alastair’s attention back to her. She looked calmer now, though just as determined. _This is as painful for me as it is for you. But we truly have no choice. It is dangerous here—too dangerous for a baby._ She reached an unconscious hand out to her mother, resting it gently against her arm. _And now you are injured. Your wounds would heal more quickly on land, and run less risk of infection._ She gave him a steady look. _I have found a woman who runs a tavern in Alicante. She’s going to help us._

Alastair stared at her. _That’s where you were today,_ he said, with dawning realization.

 _Yes._ Cordelia nodded. _Mâmân, she will have a room for you to stay in. You can give birth and nurse there, until the water is safe again._

Sona smiled at her. There was such relief there that Alastair felt his heart constrict. Cordelia was right: it would be safer for Sona on land. What kind of son and brother was he, to so insistently deprive his family of safety? All he’d ever wanted was for them to be safe.

He knew the beginnings of resignation must be showing on his face, because Cordelia was gazing at him now with obvious sympathy. _We will stay with Mâmân,_ she said, _only until you heal. Then, we will return to the sea, no matter what state it is in. I know neither of us will be able to stay away long._ She looked to Sona. _We’ll visit you frequently, of course, until all three of us—_ She paused with a smile. _Until all_ four _of us can be together in the sea again._

It was a good plan. Alastair couldn’t deny that. Still, he felt almost smothered by the force of his rising dread. The longest he’d ever lasted on land was perhaps a day, the latter half of it spent in agony. At worst, this would be _weeks._

Cordelia was watching him again, this time anxiously. With an effort, Alastair swallowed back the dread. Today, there were things to be addressed. He would take each consecutive day as it came.

 _How will we pay for our lodging?_ he asked Cordelia. _We have no human money._

Cordelia nodded. _It’s a favor. This woman, Anna—I saved her from a kappa near the shore. She says she’s happy to have us. There are many rooms open, because so few visitors are coming to Alicante these days._

She paused then. Alastair noticed she was no longer looking at him.

He frowned. _And?_

She hesitated. _I may have told her,_ she said, carefully, _that you and I would be willing to perform at the tavern._

Alastair blinked at her. _Perform?_ he echoed incredulously.

 _It’s really the least we can do,_ Cordelia said in a rush, _for her generosity, don’t you think? She could be hosting Mâmân for quite some time!_

Alastair knew he was gaping at her ridiculously, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. _Cordelia, bloody hell! What on earth are we meant to perform?_

Sona shot him a glare. _Language, Alastair._

Cordelia looked quite like she’d expected this response. _You can sing,_ she said. _I did mention the piano, too, but obviously that doesn’t work now._ She glanced down at his hands, then up at their mother. _I can dance, and tell stories. I know loads of them from memory._

Sona frowned, but there was a thoughtful crease between her eyebrows. _As long as it’s a respectable crowd,_ she said, slowly. _I am glad to know the tavern is run by a woman. It may be safer for that._

 _Cordelia._ Alastair’s voice was thick with exasperation. _Won’t we want to_ avoid _drawing attention to ourselves? This seems like entirely the worst way to do that._

 _I don’t see why that should be a priority,_ Cordelia argued. _It’s not like anyone will think twice about us being humans._

Sona met his gaze. _Our ability to grow legs is a well-kept secret,_ she said. _No one will guess._

Alastair was going to lose twice in one conversation. He could hardly believe it. _This is ridiculous,_ he said. _Does your woman actually_ want _our little song and dance? Is it useful to her in any way?_

 _Actually, yes._ Cordelia crossed her arms. _She says performances are a big part of the tavern’s night life, but there hasn’t been anyone interesting around for ages, because of the monsters._ She set her jaw. _Alastair, she is doing us a great favor. I felt better offering her something. Wouldn’t you do the same?_

 _Perhaps,_ he scoffed. _But I’d have offered her something far less mortifying. Swabbing the floors would be preferable._

He wasn’t sure that was strictly true, though. He supposed singing probably was his preferred land-dwelling activity; he’d simply never done it for an audience before. The thought made him unaccountably nervous.

Cordelia was beginning to look well and truly fed up with him. _If the thought of performing is thoroughly intolerable to you, I suppose you can ask Anna to find you a different task. I have done what I needed to do to secure us safety, Alastair. I ask only that you cooperate in what way you see fit._

Well. When she put it like that, he felt a bit guilty for giving her a hard time. He wasn’t about to show her that, but even he could see that it was time to bite his tongue.

He closed his eyes, willing some of his tension to leave him. Without opening them, he said, _I will go along with your plan for now. If it ends in disaster, know only that I warned you._

 _I won’t forget it._ Cordelia still sounded annoyed, but he caught a note of relief, too. 

Behind his closed eyelids, his vision swam. Exhaustion washed over him like a wave. It was as though, by bringing himself a step closer to sleep, his body had decided to go the rest of the way without his permission. His head spun—he felt nearly as though he might drift away on the spot. He found that he didn’t have much interest in resisting the impulse. 

The unmistakable touch of Sona’s hand ghosted over his shoulder. _Get some rest now, Alastair joon,_ she said. Alastair wondered at her nearly psychic maternal insight. _You’ve had a hard day._

He blinked open his eyes with an effort. _Aren’t we going to shore?_

 _Not yet,_ Cordelia said. Her gaze on him had softened a little. _Anna has to prepare—find us clothes and the like._

 _That’s very kind of her,_ Sona observed. 

_I know._ Cordelia was still looking at Alastair. _It will be alright,_ she said suddenly, as though she couldn’t help herself. _Oh, Alastair, it will be alright._

Alastair did not meet her eyes. _I am going to sleep for a year,_ he informed them both. _Just tell me how and when._

Cordelia only stared after him as he made his escape.

—

_When_ proved to be the next evening, and _how,_ it seemed, was to be the caves on Alicante’s beach.

Alastair knew these caves. He’d come out to them every once in awhile when they’d last lived here, riding the risen tide from sea to shore. They’d allowed him to rest above water for a moment or two while remaining sheltered from human eyes. 

That had been the case, at least, until the memorable time he’d failed to leave before the tide fell and been stranded in a shallow pool for nearly a day. In retrospect, it would have been smartest to grow some legs and dash back into the sea, but Alastair had not felt particularly inclined to subject himself to a nude sprint through a public domain. So he’d remained, waiting for the ocean to come back and retrieve him. He’d sung old merfolk songs to himself to pass the time. This had felt like a good choice. He really did enjoy singing, and on this day he’d particularly enjoyed that he could sing in privacy. Or so he’d thought.

Naturally, making noticeable noise so close to a human town was not the brilliant idea he’d thought it was, and he’d drawn a boy. In the day’s only stroke of luck, the boy had proved completely harmless—and actually rather well-meaning, upon reflection—but the whole thing had given Alastair a right scare.

It was, after all, the first time a human had ever seen him in his merman form. It would certainly not be the last—not the riskiest, nor the longest, nor nearly the most notable encounter—but it stuck out in his memory all the same. He supposed it was the novelty of the thing. 

He had never returned to the caves, though they’d lived in the area another year. Today, the plan was to meet Cordelia’s new friend there at the evening’s high tide, so that they would have somewhere private to converse.

To say that Alastair was not looking forward to this meeting wouldn’t touch his present state of mind. For the first time, he was almost grateful for the ocean’s danger: it gave him something to worry about that was not his impending imprisonment on land. 

Tension stiffened his every muscle as the three of them rocketed through the water. The shore wasn’t far, but there could be any number of horrors waiting for them along the way. Currently, Cordelia wielded both Cortana and Alastair’s spear. There was nothing for it: Alastair’s hands hurt so fiercely, he rather wondered if he’d be better off without them.

 _We’re close,_ Cordelia said, though they all knew it. None of them had spoken since setting out. Alastair suspected the silence was making her nervous.

For her sake, he tried to manage a response. None came to mind. He gazed down at the ocean floor rushing past them—when had it become visible?—and spotted, in the distance, the drop-off point: a great cliff of sand, rising to meet them.

Alastair felt equal parts relieved and gutted at the sight. As they crossed over it, into the shallows, nausea tugged at the pit of his stomach.

 _Wait,_ Cordelia said suddenly, and stopped. Alastair overshot past her and turned.

 _What is it?_ he asked, more sharply than he meant to. _I know the way._

Cordelia nodded. _I want to make sure we’re all on the same page._ She glanced sideways at Sona, who was drifting toward Alastair, one hand on her swollen belly. _Mâmân, have you been to the caves before?_

Alastair raised an eyebrow at Cordelia. _Have_ you? 

_A few times,_ Cordelia responded. Sona, who’d reached Alastair’s side, steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder. He frowned down at her—she looked pale and exhausted. They’d been moving through the water with a good deal of speed, which couldn’t have been easy for her, with all the extra weight she had to carry. 

Alastair could see in Cordelia’s eyes that she had the same thought. _Are you alright, Mâmân?_ she asked anxiously.

Sona waved her off. _Yes, Layla, don’t worry about me. I haven’t been to the caves—are they difficult to reach?_

 _Not terribly,_ Alastair told her. _The tide is high, so we’ll be able to swim directly into them. The only issue is it’s quite shallow, so you’ll need to time your movement with a big wave and let it carry you._

 _Exactly._ Cordelia was still looking at her mother. _Do we think we can manage that?_

Sona drew herself up, removing her hand from Alastair’s shoulder. Even exhausted, even heavily pregnant, even floating determinedly against the current, she always radiated elegance. It was something about the way she carried herself—something inherent.

 _Of course we can,_ she said. 

They set off again. As they neared the shore, waves began to roll overhead. The water was cloudier, shallower. Golden light filtered through its mosaic-like surface; perhaps the sun had already begun to set.

Alastair took the lead. Ahead of them, he could see a tumultuous mass of white and gray: sea foam meeting stirred-up sand. He couldn’t make out the stone walls of the caves, but he could more or less guess where they were, based on where the waves seemed to stop and ricochet back towards him.

He turned back to his mother and sister. _You go first,_ he said. _I’ll follow._

In a flurry of movement and color, Cordelia and Sona darted off. Alastair watched as a swell of water carried them into the fog-like surf, and then they were out of his sight.

He waited for another wave, gazing up at the rippling bronze surface. He could feel the force of it as it approached him, and with a single powerful kick of his tail, he caught it.

The world was chaos for a long moment. Alastair could only swim in what he hoped was the right direction: caught in a tangle of rushing water, sand and seaweed, orange light. The wave carried him like an out-of-control racehorse, pulled him sharply down, and dumped him suddenly into much colder water. 

Alastair broke the surface to gasp a surprised breath into his lungs. He’d forgotten this about the caves: that these pools were ever-cool, rarely allowed access to the sun. Heart pounding, he released the breath through his teeth and ducked under again briefly, letting the water slick his hair back so he would not have to use his hands. Then he blinked wetness from his eyes, gazing around the dark cave.

It was one of the larger ones, full of boulders. A thin ring of untouched shore sloped upward, separating the pool from the back of the cave. Ahead of him, the dimly lit shapes of Sona and Cordelia were conversing in low tones. 

Alastair cleared his throat. “Is this the right cave?” His voice, hoarse from disuse, echoed against the far wall.

“We didn’t agree on one,” Cordelia responded, turning to him.

Alastair raised an eyebrow. “Brilliant. How are we meant to be found, then?”

Cordelia glowered at him, but then her gaze traveled behind him and changed in an instant.

Alastair spun around. There was a silhouette standing at the mouth of the cave, backlit by the setting sun. It was the silhouette of a man. Alastair’s heart leapt into his throat: if this wasn’t the woman Cordelia knew, it was surely a threat. 

But then the person took a step forward, up onto a flat rock out of reach of the rushing water. Light caught their face, and Alastair blinked. It was not a man—it was a woman in men’s clothes. She was quite tall, and her black hair was cut so it fell just barely above her jaw: not unlike his own. In her arms, she carried a large basket. As he watched, she tilted her head curiously at the group of them.

“Hello, Miss Carstairs,” she said. “I thought I heard voices back here.”

“Anna.” Cordelia’s voice was thick with relief. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, darling,” Anna drawled. Her gaze traveled from Cordelia to Sona, and then to Alastair, assessing. Alastair took the opportunity to asses her in return. Between her height, her clothing—expensive-looking, complete with an elaborately embroidered violet waistcoat—and the general air of confidence she exuded, she was a rather startling presence. “I’m glad to see you’ve all made it here in one piece,” she said, at last.

Cordelia straightened. _“Mâmân,_ Alastair, this is Anna Lightwood. As I mentioned, she has generously offered us shelter in light of the current situation at sea.”

Sona inclined her head. There was a curious mix of gratitude and wariness in the smile she offered. “Truly,” she said, “we cannot thank you enough, Miss Lightwood. You don’t know what you’re doing for us.”

Anna transferred her basket to one arm so she could wave Sona off with the other. “It’s nothing at all, Mrs. Carstairs. I’ve more than enough space.” She flashed a quick, crooked smirk. “Besides, there’s nothing I like more than having interesting people about, and I’m not sure I can think of anything more interesting than a trio of merfolk.”

The wariness in Sona’s expression was beginning to win out. “Miss Lightwood,” she said, slowly. “I trust Cordelia has made you aware that we will not want to…publicize the reality of our situation?”

“Naturally,” Anna replied easily. “That’s even better—I adore secrets.” She transferred the basket back into both arms, shifting her weight on her rocky perch. “And please call me Anna,” she added. “Even if I did not prefer it, which I do, I suspect we’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other in the coming weeks.” Her eyes glittered with glee. “Possibly months!”

Alastair did not feel quite so gleeful about _that_ idea. A scowl slipped across his face before he could reign it in. Anna’s gaze darted to him; Alastair quickly schooled his face into neutrality, but he could see in her eyes that she was not fooled.

“Mr. Carstairs.” She drew the name out, as though testing the sound of its syllables. “Your sister thought she might have a bit of trouble convincing you to come ashore. Have you come around, or is there more convincing left to do?”

Alastair gazed at her steadily. “I am grateful to Cordelia for finding us safety,” he said, evenly. He inclined his head to her. “And I am grateful to you for offering us shelter.”

Anna narrowed her eyes in amusement. “Indeed, Mr. Carstairs, you positively radiate gratitude.” She raised an eyebrow. “But you have not answered my question.”

“He’ll come ashore for now,” Cordelia piped up, before Alastair could respond. “He has no choice. He’s injured his hands, and they must heal.”

Alastair barely restrained himself from shooting her a glare. “Injured?” Anna echoed, both eyebrows raised now.

“Your Navy’s put wicked nets to use,” Alastair replied, coldly. “They’re made of something sharp. I cut my palms to bits trying to free a mermaid they’d caught.”

Anna put a hand to her forehead, uttering a word Alastair did not recognize. He could practically feel tension radiating from his mother and sister, but Anna only dropped her hand and said, “Well, Mr. Carstairs. That’s about the most godawful thing I’ve ever heard. I can’t say I’ve ever cared much for the Navy, but I apologize for their behavior nonetheless.” She met his gaze. “Did you free the mermaid, at least?”

There was a pause. Alastair could feel his family’s eyes on him. He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.

“Ah, no,” he said. “She was—she was killed.”

Anna’s gaze on his did not waver. “By the Navy.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

She blinked, tilting her head as though processing the information. “On purpose, do you think?”

His chest ached, like someone had socked him in it. “It seemed purposeful.”

Anna hummed. Her expression was still neutral, but there was something about her stance, the twitch of her lips, that made Alastair feel, inexplicably, that she was actually furious. He was rather surprised by his own honesty. He hadn’t planned on sharing this story with anyone other than his family, but now that he had a human before him, he realized that he needed someone to answer for it.

“Horrid,” Anna said. She took a deep breath. “Utterly horrid. I’m rather at a loss for words, which is uncommon for me.” She shook her head. “I knew the Navy was ruthless and self-serving, but I never thought them capable of this sort of cruelty. The worst part is I can well imagine why they did it. Though they’re after monsters, to them, you’re all the same. They’d kill every living thing in the sea before they’d let Alicante’s economy tank.”

“Do you think they will?” Cordelia asked. Alastair glanced back at her. She looked immensely distressed. “There are ever so many monsters out there. They could completely decimate benevolent populations before this is over.”

Anna inclined her head. “Not if we stop them,” she said. “I’m not sure how, but it’s clear enough that something needs to be done.” She made a face. “This world may not be just, but even in an unjust world there should be consequences for killing innocent souls.”

Alastair frowned. “But we can’t walk around telling people we’re merfolk,” he pointed out. “I can’t exactly provide testimony.”

“I’m well aware, Mr. Carstairs.” There was a thoughtful downwards tilt to Anna’s mouth. “I’ll think of something. But don’t worry yourself about it for now—you have much more immediate concerns on your hands.” She held out the basket. Alastair had nearly forgotten it was there. “Clothes,” she said, “and towels. If someone would be a dear and take this from me? I would rather not dampen my boots.”

“Oh, Anna,” Cordelia said, darting past Alastair before he could react. “I cannot thank you enough.”

Anna passed the basket into Cordelia’s outstretched arms with a grin. “It was easy, darling. A tailor in town owed me a favor. The fit may not be perfect, but he’ll have you back in for adjustments if necessary.” 

Cordelia ferried the basket away from her, to the bit of shore at the back of the cave. “Ah,” Anna added, “and I would maybe avoid the shoes for now? You’ll have to wade back out, after all. You can put them on when you’ve reached dry land.”

Cordelia had already wriggled onto the shore and was reaching down to help her mother. Gingerly, Sona drew herself up on her back, using her arms to pull herself backwards through the sand. Satisfied that she was making progress, Cordelia met Alastair’s gaze. “We’ll just change behind one of the boulders,” she said, “and then you can go.”

“Fine.” Alastair was a little wary of being left alone with Anna, but he wasn’t about to show it. He turned his back on his family and met his companion’s gaze. They eyed each other as he sank down into the water until it grazed his chin.

“So,” Anna said, tucking her hands into her pockets. “Tell me why you so despise living on land.”

Alastair blinked at her directness. “I never said that.”

“But it’s true, is it not?” She tilted her head at him. Her mouth was not smiling, but her eyes were. The light had caught her more fully now, and he could see that they were a rather unusual shade of dark blue.

He hesitated. “I don’t despise land. I’ve been known to quite like it, under the right circumstances.”

Anna raised an eyebrow. “And what are the right circumstances?”

Alastair wondered how much to tell her. She seemed the type who would quite enjoy hearing about an illicit affair, and—more importantly—endeavor to keep it to herself henceforth, but only Cordelia in all the world knew about Charles, and Alastair would die before sharing something so personal with a total stranger. He was surprised to find the temptation there at all. It was something about Anna, he supposed. He did not yet know her, but he knew she would not judge him.

Instead, he simply said, “I like to read, something I cannot do underwater. And I enjoy music, which I gather Cordelia already told you.”

“She did.” Anna nodded. “I’d never considered these limitations of underwater living. I hope I don’t offend you by saying that I find that idea quite intolerable.” She shrugged. “I cannot imagine life without art.”

“I understand that,” Alastair replied. “You draw vitality from it, do you not? From art, and music, and literature?”

“Indeed,” Anna agreed, with a small smile.

“Well,” Alastair said, “we draw that same vitality from the sea. The salt, the quality of the light, the atmosphere—the feeling of the water around us. I feel…empty when I am not in it.” He paused. “It is difficult to explain.”

“I think you’ve explained it well.” Anna was gazing at him thoughtfully. “Will it be terrible for you, to live on land?”

“Yes.” He saw no point in hiding it. “But it will be safe. I want that for my family.”

She smiled thinly. “You are a dutiful brother. I, too, am an eldest child.” She removed her hands from her pockets, crossing her arms. Her cufflinks glittered in the setting sun. “Know, Alastair Carstairs, that you _will_ be safe in Alicante. And if you seek advice on how you might enliven the experience, terrible as it may be—” she paused with a meaningful eyebrow quirk. “Do let me know.”

Alastair felt as though he was missing something. “Enliven?” he echoed.

Her smile curved up at the corner. “There are far more reasons to enjoy land than you may presently be aware of. A great deal of them can be found at my tavern. Good food, spirits, utterly incessant merriment, characters of all sorts—” She ticked each item off on her fingers. “You and you sister will be arriving fresh off the boat into a town that hasn’t seen outsiders for some weeks now. Between that, your connection to me, and your rather startling good looks, I daresay the both of you could have your pick of anyone who caught your eye.” 

Alastair snorted inelegantly. “Cordelia, perhaps,” he said, before he could stop himself. “I wouldn’t be so sure about myself.”

Anna looked intrigued. “Why ever not?”

There were several answers, none of which he was inclined to share. Luckily, he was saved the trouble by the reemergence of Cordelia from the back of the cave.

“They’re beautiful!” she called across to Anna, smoothing the fine material of her dress with great care. She had pinned her wet hair up, somewhat haphazardly. “I cannot believe you managed this in a single day.”

Alastair could not help but agree. Sona was now picking her way barefoot across the rocks to her daughter, and she wore a _roosari_ —how on earth Anna had managed to procure one in _England_ on such short notice was absolutely beyond him.

Anna wiggled her eyebrows at Cordelia. “I have my ways.”

Alastair had already begun to slink away from her through the water. “I’ll just get changed, then,” he said. “So we can set off.”

“Godspeed, Mr. Carstairs,” Anna replied dryly. There was a look in her eyes that told him she was not done with him yet.

After the utterly mortifying ordeal of transferring himself onto shore—by way of Cordelia, who took hold of him under his armpits and dragged him laboriously backwards into the boulder’s shadow—Alastair found himself sorting through a surprisingly palatable pile of clothing. Given Anna’s elaborate ensemble, he’d rather expected she’d have chosen him something much more colorful than he generally preferred. Instead, nearly every item was black, with the exception of the standard white shirt and undergarments.

He took his time examining each thing, savoring these last few minutes in his true form. When he could no longer justifiably delay the inevitable, he lowered himself slowly onto his back. He couldn’t bear watching. Instead, he stared at the cave’s dark ceiling as he willed the lower half of his body to transform.

This was a tricky business—it could only be done if he was completely relaxed. At this moment, relaxation felt quite far out of reach. Cursing inwardly, Alastair closed his eyes. He inhaled slowly, and as he exhaled he thought of the sea.

Another breath. Another. Like waves rolling against the shore: gentle, constant. He thought he could feel them washing over him—could see rippling water in the darkness of his eyelids. 

His tail fins shrank back first, separating into toes and feet. The sensation of his scales retreating into his body, disappearing by the same magic that had brought them into existence, made him shiver from head to toe. It felt, he’d always thought, like a million tiny fingernails raking over his gradually appearing skin. The feeling traveled up his calves, up his thighs, crawled insistently up to his waist. Then it stopped. Alastair opened his eyes, just as the gills on his neck fluttered shut.

Slowly, he sat up. There were the legs: foreign and horrible. He felt bile rise in his throat, and swallowed thickly to force it down. 

Dressing was an excruciating process. He hadn’t considered the effort it would take to towel himself off and wrangle clothing onto his human body with such problematic hands. At one point, Cordelia called out to him in concern—he ignored her, too busy gingerly shrugging his black coat on. He heard footsteps start in his direction, just as he stepped out from behind the boulder.

All three of the women in the cave stared at him. It was Cordelia who had moved toward him: she stood in front of him now, open concern in her gaze.

Sona, on the other hand, wore a resigned smile. “You look so handsome, Alastair _joon,”_ she said. Cordelia bit the inside of her cheek.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Alastair jerked his head once in assent. Now that he was closer to his mother and sister, he could see the effort that had gone into selecting their clothing: Cordelia’s dress was made of a fine bronze silk, and Sona’s _roosari_ was turquoise with a calico pattern. The two shades resembled each woman’s mermaid tail closely enough that he knew it had to have been intentional—and of course, he realized with a jolt, that had also been the logic behind _his_ ensemble.

He turned to stare at Anna. She looked pleased with herself—rather deservedly, he had to admit. 

“God, but you’re a gorgeous family,” she crowed. “I can hardly wait to introduce you to everyone. Shall we?”

Cordelia and Alastair exchanged a glance. For the first time, he caught a bit of private terror in her gaze, and then it was gone. She drew herself up, turning to face Anna with a determined furrow to her brow.

“We shall,” she said.

And so they did.

—

In the year or two they’d spent here before, Alastair had never bothered to visit the city of Alicante. 

To a certain extent, once you’d seen one European port town, you’d seen them all—so he’d figured there wasn’t much here that would impress him. Now, he found that he had been right and wrong about this.

Many things, indeed, were familiar. The buildings, all identical: stout structures of filthy red-brown brick. The air, choked with a curious combination of smoke, salt, sewage, and the overpowering scent of dead fish. The general hustle and bustle of humanity: men with sweat-stained shirts, women with grease-smeared faces, children throwing rocks at each other, dogs dancing beneath meat-vendors’ feet. It was not, Alastair mused, entirely unlike the rhythm of life he might find at an overpopulated coral reef—only dirtier, louder, and much less vibrant.

But there were new things, too. The murals, for one: huge swaths of swirling color, worn by the sun and the damp air. Nearly every available building had been given over to them, and they all had something to do with the sea. There were serpents and krakens, sharks and dolphins—there was a school of fish covering every inch of somebody’s house. Overwhelmingly, there were merfolk. Everywhere he looked, he saw more of them: faces from everywhere around the world, tails in every color of the rainbow. It made him feel as though he was walking down the street under a huge magnifying glass—like if anyone looked too closely at him for even a moment, they’d realize what he was. It was a foolish thought, and he did his best to smother it.

The people, too, were different than he’d expected. Usually, the atmosphere in a place like this was one of business and distrust, so Alastair was surprised to observe here a general air of friendliness. Nearly everyone he passed was speaking to somebody else—sometimes leaning out of a window or shouting across a street to do so. Everyone seemed to know each other. Truly, _everyone_ seemed to know Anna. They were waylaid upwards of twenty times by humans of all sorts, each with something different to say to her. And each time, Anna smoothly introduced the Carstairs family with the cover story she’d dreamed up.

They were Anna’s long-time friends, she claimed. She’d met them in London years ago. Apparently this was convincing on the grounds that Anna went to London frequently, almost always by herself. Now, they were looking for a fresh start after their father had died tragically at sea, and Anna had decided to take them in while they searched for a permanent home.

Alastair surmised that Cordelia had never told Anna where their father actually was, and so Anna had simply assumed that he was dead. This small misunderstanding was fine by Alastair, but he could tell it bothered Cordelia. She was doing a good job of hiding it, but she looked down every time Elias was mentioned. At one point, he could not resist sidling closer and nudging her with his elbow—a small attempt to offer support. She put her hand in the crook of his arm.

Alastair did not care much for humans, but these particular humans weren’t as awful as their kind could sometimes be. He received quite a few curious glances from the people who stopped to speak with them, but he’d yet to catch any hostile ones, which tended to be a frequent occurrence in cities of the Western world. Part of him wondered, though, if they were getting lucky because of their proximity to Anna. He imagined the company she kept tended to be of the more tolerant sort.

“Well, then,” Anna said, after sending off the latest obstacle, a pretty young woman who’d pressed a letter into her hand and a kiss to her cheek. (Alastair, though not surprised, was quietly pleased). “It’s just on the left here.”

She did not say it like she was saying, _It’s just on the left here._ She said it like she was saying, _What you are about to see will change your lives._ So, caught up as he was in a brief rush of respect for her, Alastair paused with the others to admire Anna’s tavern.

It was a sizable building: brick like everything else, but the entire front face had been given over to the biggest mural he’d seen yet. It featured a mermaid, larger than life—her beautiful tanned face likely as tall as he was—with a long lavender tail that had been embellished with what appeared to be thousands of bits of colored sea glass. Blue-green water surrounded her, and beside her tail-fins, the tavern’s name had been painted: _The Mermaid’s Tail._

“Oh, Anna, it’s beautiful!” Cordelia exclaimed. 

“It’s quite nice,” Alastair agreed. Anna raised an eyebrow at him, but she was smiling.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said. “I hope it will be serviceable for this unfortunate stint on land. Shall I show you to your rooms?”

—

The interior of the tavern was decorated as well. They moved quickly through the half-empty barroom, but Alastair caught glimpses of stained glass windows and multicolored paintings he planned to get a closer look at later. Just off of the barroom, there was a dimly-lit hallway that held only some bathrooms and a set of stairs.

Anna led them up these stairs, into another hallway. Through the first door on the left, she showed them a sizable sitting room, lined with bookshelves and decorated with plush coral couches and green leather chairs. The rest of the doors, it seemed, led to bedrooms. Anna lived at the very end of the hall—the Carstairs would live in three rooms nearby. 

By the time she left them to settle in, Alastair was feeling a bit more at peace with the idea of spending some time here. His room was painted a pleasing bright periwinkle—Sona’s was royal blue and Cordelia’s a pale turquoise—and each of its surfaces displayed various knickknacks from the sea. Alastair was most interested in the large, unbroken conch shell sitting proudly on his desk: a rare find. He would have to ask Anna how she’d managed it.

This newfound excitement lasted about the five minutes it took Alastair to glance in the mirror. His face was stiff with dry skin, a lasting impression of the salt water, and his hair had become noticeably sticky and clumped in odd places as it dried. Besides, it had _sand_ in it. There was no way he could put himself forward in public again looking like this. But that would mean bathing. And bathing would mean erasing the last lingering traces of the sea from this awful human body.

Alastair stood still in the middle of his room, all relief forgotten. The lovely periwinkle walls now felt close, restrictive. He was _trapped_ here. It may not be unpleasant, but it was not the ocean.

How was he supposed to do this? How on earth would he cope?

Alastair approached his porcelain tub with the air of an innocent man sent to the gallows. As he coaxed himself through the motions, he reminded himself: _it’s water. It’s still water._ It didn’t help much. It was not nearly the same. He maneuvered the soap carefully with his raw, tender palms, taking the time to wipe the salt and and dirt from them. It was senselessly painful: he bit down on the inside of his lip until his mouth tasted like iron. It took several passes to clean years’ worth of seawater from his hair; he couldn’t imagine how arduous this same process would be for Cordelia. When it was done, when he was clean, he sat in the water for a minute longer—now laced with traces of soap, sand, and blood from his still-open wounds—and closed his eyes.

A rapping on the bathroom door wrenched them open again. He sat up, blinking. “Yes?”

“Are you bathing?” his mother’s voice called. “Good. When you’re finished, Anna has brought bandages for your hands.”

Alastair let out a small groan, tilting his head back until it touched the tub’s cold edge. 

“You may take your time,” Sona added, gently.

Alastair shook his head at himself. “No, I’m coming,” he said, and removed himself in a flurry of dripping water and unnecessary human limbs.

—

By the time he emerged from his room—clean, clothed, covered from head to foot in a moisturizing cream Anna had sent along, hands rubbed in ointment and bandaged by Sona—he was in a spectacularly sour mood. Still, he slunk down the hallway to the sitting room, hoping to meet no one and quickly find a serviceable book to retreat to his bed with. But when he opened the door Anna had shown them earlier, perhaps with a little more force than was necessary, Cordelia was there. Even more to his dismay, she was not alone.

There was an unfamiliar girl seated beside her at the table: small frame perched right at the edge of her chair, like she planned to leap from it at any moment. Her brown hair was falling out of its updo, and she had ink smeared on her cheek. Alastair observed each of these things, judgmentally, in the space it took him to realize both girls were staring at him.

“Alastair?” Cordelia said into the silence. “Is everything alright?”

The girl glanced between them with raised eyebrows. “This would be your brother, then!” she announced, as if this was news to all three of them.

Alastair frowned at her. “Who are you?”

“Don’t be rude, Alastair,” Cordelia said. “Did you hear me ask—”

“Everything’s alright, yes,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

There was a pause. “Well,” the girl said brightly, fiddling with a fountain pen, “you did just barge in here like there’d been a murder. Do you make a habit of doing that?”

Now Alastair looked to Cordelia for help. “Who’s she?”

“This is Lucie Herondale,” Cordelia said, clearly annoyed with him. “She’s Anna’s cousin.”

Lucie surveyed him with great interest. “Pleasure, Mr. Carstairs.”

“Miss Herondale.” Alastair gave a short bow, stomach sinking to his feet. It seemed he would not be allowed to retreat to his room—not, at least, if he didn’t want to look like a complete arse. He was just on the edge of making that tradeoff, but he knew both Cordelia and Sona would kill him in cold blood.

With great regret, he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. 

“I have just been speaking with your sister,” Lucie said. “She has ever so many interesting stories about your travels! How thrilling your lives have been!”

Alastair sent a quick glance at Cordelia. He supposed she must have been feeding Lucie tales of the times they’d spent on land—which were, indeed, in many different cities around the world. As long as Lucie did not become suspicious, he supposed the tales would only add to their flimsy human backstory.

“Indeed,” he said, looking back at Lucie. “We are very fortunate.”

“Are you going to sit down?” Cordelia asked him tensely. 

Alastair cocked an eyebrow at her. “I was hoping to look at the bookshelf.”

Lucie, who was glancing between them again, cleared her throat. “Oh, do have a look!” she said. “Those are mostly Anna’s, and they’re dreadfully scandalous. I’ve had a delightful time going through them myself.”

“Thank you, I will,” Alastair replied flatly, and turned his back on them. He heard Cordelia murmur something to Lucie, and Lucie’s responding laughter as he approached the nearest bookshelf. He scanned the titles for something he recognized, and almost immediately stopped short.

There _was_ a familiar title, and it was familiar not only because he’d read it, but because it was in Persian. The _Rubáiyát,_ a collection of poems. Alastair tended to prefer essays and other nonfiction to fiction and poetry, but he remembered liking this one well enough.

Carefully, he removed the volume from the shelf and brought it to the table, holding it gingerly between his unmarred fingertips. He set it before him as he slid into one of the garish green chairs. The girls paused their hushed conversation to examine it.

“Does Anna read Persian?” Cordelia asked, voice full of surprise. Lucie shook her head.

“No, that will be one of Thomas’s. He’s Anna’s cousin on her other side.” She met Alastair’s gaze with big blue eyes. “You might as well borrow it, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“If you’re certain,” Alastair said absently, flipping open the front cover of the book. There was a note inside written neatly in ink. He tilted his head sideways to read it, but was torn away by Lucie’s sudden gasp.

“Your hands!” she exclaimed. “I’d nearly forgotten! Cordelia was just telling me how you injured them!”

Alastair gave Cordelia a sharp, confused look. Cordelia returned his gaze steadily.

“Yes,” she said, “I told Lucie about how you rescued that cow near Coventry. You know, from that awful wire it had gotten itself caught in?”

Alastair stared at her for a long moment. When it became clear that they were both waiting for him to speak, he said, slowly, “Ah, yes. The cow.”

Cordelia glared at him, probably because his voice had been dry as bone. Given the absurdity of her cover story, he hardly saw how that was _his_ fault. Luckily, Lucie didn’t seem to notice.

“Poor thing,” she said sympathetically. Alastair wasn’t sure whether she meant him or the mythical cow, but he had a sneaking suspicion it was the latter. She stared down at Alastair’s hands, and for the first time, so did he. He had to admit they were rather ghastly looking. There were thick bandages wrapped over his palms, and thinner ones looped around each segment of his fingers, avoiding the joints so he could still bend them. “Do they hurt terribly?” she asked him. Before he could answer, she added, “Do you think they’ll scar?”

Alastair frowned, startled. “What kind of question is that?”

Cordelia looked murderous, but Lucie seemed faintly abashed. “A terribly inappropriate one,” she acknowledged. “You must forgive me—I ask only because I am a writer. Alas, it is the writer’s duty to ask inappropriate questions sometimes.” She drew herself up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with the end of her pen. For the first time, Alastair noticed that a notepad sat on the table in front of her.

“What do you write, Lucie?” Cordelia asked, perhaps knowingly preventing Alastair from telling Lucie he failed to grasp the logical flow of her argument. 

“Oh, many things,” Lucie responded airily. “But lately I’ve devoted much of my focus to one project in particular.”

There was a pause. Dutifully, with a small smile, Cordelia said, “What is it about, then?”

Lucie stood. As she was very short, it did not make much of a difference. “Well, since you’ve asked,” she said. “I happen to have a few pages downstairs. I shall return shortly.”

And she was gone, in a flurry of blue-gray skirts. The door slammed loudly behind her. Alastair and Cordelia had a single moment to exchange a look of pure exhaustion, and then the door opened again.

This time, it was Anna. “Hello, my dear sea-dwellers,” she said grandly, waltzing into the room. “How are we adjusting?”

“Oh, brilliantly,” Cordelia replied, as Anna occupied the seat Lucie had just vacated, crossing her legs with a flourish. “The rooms are gorgeous, really.”

There was an admirable amount of enthusiasm in her voice. Out of respect, Alastair took a deep breath and wracked his brain for something to say. “They are,” he agreed. “There is a rather extraordinary conch shell on my desk—I wonder where you may have acquired it?”

Cordelia looked surprised, and pleased. It was almost worth the effort of speaking.

“Ah, that.” Anna grinned. “It was a gift from a lover. I was far from her first, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she got it from someone else. Perhaps it’s been passed down a long line of lovers.” She tapped her chin with one long finger. “Perhaps it was given to her by a mermaid.”

“That would make sense,” Cordelia said, this time with what sounded like genuine enthusiasm. “If it’s really that extraordinary, I cannot imagine a land-dweller found it. It must have come straight from the sea.”

“Well, then, I’m glad one of you gets to enjoy it.” Anna gave Alastair a sidelong look. “And again, if there’s anything I can do to improve your stay, please do let me know.”

“You’ve done so much already,” Cordelia told her. “We truly are most grateful.”

Anna waved her off, leaning back in her chair. “Enough of that,” she said. “In return, I get to have the pleasure of your company.” She glanced between them. “And a front-row seat to your talents, if you still agree.”

Astoundingly, Alastair had nearly forgotten about this particular horror. He sat in silence as both Cordelia and Anna looked at him. Evidently, Anna knew as well as his sister that he might be a problem.

But he found that with her eyes on him, a good deal of his resolve shrank back. Deeply as he may resent this entire situation, it was true that she had helped them greatly—and displayed rather stunning thoughtfulness along the way. He could not bring himself to respond: he jerked his head once in a nod.

“Very good,” Anna said. There was a small twinkle in her blue eyes.

“Are we performing tonight?” Cordelia asked.

“If you’re up for it,” Anna replied, examining her fingernails. “Dinner first, though. We must get you fed. You’re in luck, my cook’s a genius. Is there anything in particular you like? We have the best chowder in town.” She frowned, as though a thought had occurred to her. “That’s not offensive to you, is it?”

“Not at all,” Cordelia rushed to assure her. “We eat fish every day.”

“Really?” Anna looked delighted. “Raw? I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it? Do you bother to prepare it, or does it just go straight down the hatch?” Her eyebrows shot up wickedly. “Do you eat like sharks?”

Lucie chose this most opportune moment to reappear, slamming the door once more behind her. “What’s this about sharks?” she inquired, settling into the seat beside Anna.

“Cordelia’s afraid of them,” Alastair volunteered immediately.

Cordelia shot him a dark look. “I most certainly am _not.”_

“If you’re afraid of sharks, you might not like _The Beautiful Mermaid_ very much,” Lucie noted, setting a large stack of papers on the table before her with a _thunk._ When she’d said a few pages, she’d evidently meant the entire manuscript. “There’s a terrifying scene where the beautiful mermaid in question is nearly torn to pieces by a pack of them!”

“I am _not_ afraid of sharks,” Cordelia emphasized. “They’re lovely!”

“And they don’t attack mermaids,” Alastair added. Beneath the table, Cordelia stepped on his foot.

They both froze. Anna choked on what sounded suspiciously like a laugh as Lucie blinked at the pair of them. “How would you know?” she asked, affronted.

“Ah,” Cordelia said, and then appeared to flounder. 

“You don’t,” Lucie answered for them, in a superior tone. She straightened the stack of pages. “I appreciate your input, but I am not presently seeking creative advice. You are welcome, however, to ask me any questions you like.”

Cordelia grasped the change in subject like a drowning woman clinging to a life preserver. “Your novel’s about a mermaid, then?”

Lucie smiled. “Indeed.” She opened her mouth to continue, but Anna cut her off.

“But Lucie,” she said, as innocently as Anna could say anything. “Everyone knows mermaids aren’t real.”

Lucie glared at her as Cordelia and Alastair exchanged a quick, amused glance. “You cannot say that!” she cried.

Anna grinned. “My dear, don’t be offended. I am only poking fun.”

Lucie straightened, looking peevish. “I forgive you, of course, but I _am_ offended. On behalf of the merfolk, that is. I’d be dead today if not for a mermaid.”

Alastair stared. “Really?”

“Oh, yes!” Lucie laced her fingers together excitedly. “When I was twelve years old, my family went out in our sailboat and got caught in a storm. I was thrown overboard and sucked far underwater. I’d certainly have drowned if the mermaid hadn’t come along.” She appeared to greatly relish the drama of that idea. “You may say I hallucinated her—out of fear, or because I lacked air—but I know what I saw. I shall never forget how beautiful she was.” She gazed dreamily into the distance, now fiddling with her pen again. “Her tail was bronze, that I’m sure of. And her hair was the color of blood.” She gestured to Cordelia with the pen. “Not unlike yours! You’re very lucky to achieve that shade naturally, you know.”

Cordelia had gone noticeably pale. Alastair found himself at a total loss for words. Luckily, Anna seemed to asses the situation as quickly as they had, for she cleared her throat and said, “That she is! So, the novel?”

“Ah, yes!” Lucie smiled. “The novel is about the beautiful mermaid who saved me. It follows her on her oceanic adventures—and romances.”

Cordelia returned her smile, somewhat weakly. “Romances!” she said. “Whoever could she find to romance under the sea?”

“Do you jest?” Lucie put a hand to her chest. “Opportunities abound for the beautiful mermaid! Mermen, of course—sailors, seamen—a pirate captain _and_ a naval captain at once, which is, of course, delightfully dramatic—”

Cordelia giggled. Some of the color had returned to her face. “At once!” she echoed. “However will she choose?”

“Anything but the Navy,” Alastair muttered darkly.

Lucie pointed her pen at him. “One vote for the pirate,” she said. _“That_ is useful feedback.”

“Lucie, dear,” Anna interjected, “I’m sure everyone wants to continue hearing about _The Beautiful Mermaid,_ but might we move this conversation downstairs? These two have had a long journey, and I must get some food in them.”

“Of course!” Lucie shot up from her seat, offering her hand to Cordelia. “How rude of me, I’ve been going on and on into dinnertime!”

Alastair met Anna’s gaze. “What about our mother?” he asked.

“Your mother is very tired,” Anna told him. “She told the two of you to go down without her. I’ll bring dinner up to her myself, I promise.”

Alastair stood. “I will go see her.”

“Let her rest, _lladdwr.”_ Anna smiled. “She’s safe now. You all are.”

Lucie, having helped Cordelia to her feet, looked confused. “Is the journey from London dangerous these days?” she inquired. “It’s been some years since I went.”

“Oh, yes,” Cordelia replied, with a sideways glance at Alastair. “Dreadfully dangerous. I mean, you heard what happened to that poor cow.”

Alastair attempted to communicate the full force of his ire with a single look. Cordelia only smiled sweetly at him as she tugged Lucie with her out the door.

—

Alastair was not sure he’d ever tasted the human take on seafood before. He felt certain he’d remember if he had. It was a strange concept: the same things he’d eaten his entire life, only seasoned and enjoyed at a much hotter temperature than he was used to.

That said, he found the meal was not entirely unpleasant. In fact, he had to admit it was rather delicious. He’d certainly heard of chowder before, but this particular chowder had a greater variety of seafood in it than he had envisioned. He was surprised and pleased to find that it included mussels, one of his favorite underwater delicacies.

He ate in silence as Cordelia and Lucie chattered incessantly across from him. They were seated beside each other and seemed entirely oblivious to anyone else in the world. Alastair didn’t mind—he was not feeling particularly sociable at the moment, and he was secretly glad to see Cordelia make a friend. It could be rather lonely at sea, especially when one moved as much as they had.

The barroom was even more decorated than he had initially noticed. He couldn’t properly see the stained glass windows now, as it was dark outside, but there were paintings of ocean scenery everywhere he looked. The glasses the patrons drank from were all tinted different shades of blue, and shaped haphazardly, like they had been individually created. Lined up behind the bar, they made an ocean of their own.

He saw a flurry of movement in the corner of his eye, and then Anna was seated backwards on the bench beside him. “Hello,” she said, quietly. “How are we finding things?”

“The food is delicious,” he told her truthfully. 

She smirked. “Thank you. I aim only for it to taste _almost_ as good as raw fish.” She glanced sideways at him. “I know you have some qualms about the performance tonight.”

Alastair hesitated, toying with his spoon. “I’ve never sung for an audience before,” he admitted. “And I don’t have much desire for a spotlight, anyhow.”

Anna smiled. “But you say you’ve limited experience. How would you know what you truly feel for the spotlight?”

Alastair gave her a wry look. “I know myself. I think I can make an educated guess.”

“All I’m saying is, you can’t know for sure.” Anna leaned an elbow back on the table beside him. Her face was very near his; he tried not to shrink back. “Things are about to change here. I feel I should warn you.” She gestured to their surroundings. “This place is effortlessly respectable during the day, but after the dinner hour, the more free-spirited patrons come through. This means two things.” She held up a finger. “One, the atmosphere will become considerably wilder. If you’re tired, as I’m sure you are, you might not be able to bear it for long. But two—” she held up a second finger beside the first, “—I know this crowd well. They are not judgmental, they are not by any means critics: they seek only to enjoy and experience. I have never heard you sing, but I can already promise they’ll love you.”

Alastair hummed, swallowing a spoonful of his chowder to avoid responding for the moment. The speech had somehow made him less _and_ more nervous at once. “Thank you,” he said at last, not meeting her eyes.

“Trust yourself,” she replied, enigmatically, and then shot to her feet. “Ahoy! Look what the kraken dragged in!”

Her voice was loud enough to draw stares across the barroom. Alastair exchanged a quick glance with Cordelia, who had paused mid-word and was still facing Lucie with her mouth half-open. Then he turned.

Two men had entered the tavern. As they hung up their hats by the door, one of them, a smiling blond, spread his arms in greeting.

“Ahoy yourself!” he cried. “Alas, however, no kraken.”

The other man ran a hand through his wild mop of black hair, shaking his head at Anna. “We’ve lost it, I think.”

Two more men had followed. One of them was outrageously tall, and had to bend his head far down to listen properly to his companion, a bespectacled fellow, as he spoke animatedly about something that apparently required a lot of hand gestures. 

“Goddamn,” Anna said, with feeling. “I was so hopeful for you.”

“Yes, well,” said the black-haired man, as the other two hung up their hats. “Perhaps our streak of luck has finally broken. I’m inclined to think so after yesterday.”

Behind him, Alastair heard Lucie muttering something about sirens to Cordelia. “How do _you_ know?” Cordelia asked, and Lucie laughed.

“Why, because that’s my brother! James,” she called, “do come over and meet my new friends!”

Alastair thought it was a little generous to group him in, but there was no time to protest. The black-haired sailor was approaching their table, while his friends spoke with Anna by the door.

“Hello,” he said. His gaze traveled from Cordelia to Alastair and back again. He looked confused, but friendly. “Who do I have the honor of addressing?”

“James, this is Cordelia and Alastair Carstairs,” Lucie said. “They’re visiting friends of Anna’s. Cordelia, Alastair, this is my elder brother, Captain James Herondale.”

“Captain?” Alastair echoed.

“Pleased to meet you,” Cordelia added, with pointed politeness. Though she did not so much as glance at him, he could _feel_ how much she wanted to glare him into the ground.

“The pleasure is mine,” James told her, sweetly. Alastair barely resisted rolling his eyes. Cordelia, evidently, did not share his sentiments: she was gazing at James like he was the loveliest thing she’d ever seen. Alastair supposed he was not bad-looking—he was relatively tall, and had rather interesting golden eyes—but he was certainly not worth all that.

James turned to Alastair. “I am a ship captain,” he explained, “although it is a small ship. That’s my crew.” He gestured in the direction of his three friends. They had started toward him now, still talking and laughing amongst themselves. Alastair couldn’t help but note how much _space_ they took up. Their presence alone had cleared a path through the tavern, as everyone—consciously or not—prepared to let them through. These were clearly the first of the more boisterous crowd, exuding an energy entirely different from the calm they had invaded.

The blond sailor passed closely by their table with a quick hello to Lucie, juggling four drinks. Alastair caught a whiff of whisky and saltwater. James, too, reeked so strongly of the sea that Alastair felt like he might be sick. Here were these land-dwellers: not meant to be in the ocean, yet staking their claim over it anyway. Playing with danger during the day, but returning to their safe homes and beds each night. Still covered in salt and muck and sand, when he’d had to wash every trace of it from himself hours earlier.

Alastair hated them already.

He must have missed the tail end of the conversation with James, for James had now left them for the nearby table his blond friend had picked out. The bespectacled man had joined them too, which left only the giant, who was making his way toward them with what appeared to be a large pitcher of water cradled in his strong arms. As he passed Alastair, their gazes met, and caught. He slowed briefly as though to properly study Alastair, a little crease forming between his brows. Alastair, uncomfortable at being the subject of such direct scrutiny, quirked a hostile eyebrow at him. The sailor glanced quickly away, a flush blooming over his cheeks. Alastair glared at his back as he hastened to join his friends.

“Well, then.” Suddenly Anna was beside him again, grinning lazily. “Now the fun can begin.”

Cordelia smiled. “They seem nice.”

“Oh, they’re lovely.” Anna caught Alastair’s eye, looking like she very much guessed his thoughts on the new arrivals. “They may seem a bit much,” she added, “but they’re well-meaning. I would die and kill for them.” She nodded at Lucie. “Lucie can vouch for James.”

“Eh.” Lucie shrugged magnanimously. “He’s fine.”

“Christopher, the excited one in the glasses, is my little brother.” Alastair looked back over at the man in question with greater interest—he did, in fact, resemble Anna. It was something about his bone structure. “Thomas is my cousin, on my father’s side. Don’t be fooled by his size, he’s the gentlest person you’ll ever meet.” So this was the owner of the book in the sitting room. Alastair struggled to imagine this tall, broad, handsome young man writing careful notes in a little book of Persian poetry. He had to admit the thought, while dissonant, had a certain appeal.

“And this is Matthew,” Lucie said, gesturing to the blond sailor suddenly standing beside their table. 

“Hullo,” Matthew said, neatly dodging Lucie’s hand as she made to thwack him on the hip. “I understand Lucie has some new friends,” he continued. “I would like to meet them, to make sure nobody plans to challenge my status as Lucie’s _closest_ and _most beloved_ friend.”

“You have James already,” Lucie protested, hooking her arm protectively through Cordelia’s.

“Actually, these are _my_ friends,” Anna informed the table. “Or they were, until Lucie stole them.”

 _“Were_ they?” Matthew looked between Cordelia and Alastair with sudden interest. “This changes things. Anna only befriends people who are very exciting. Lucie, I’ve decided that I actually approve of these people. If you want to leave me for them, I would understand.”

Lucie shook her head affectionately. “I would never leave you,” she assured him. “Do say hello, though, you’re being awfully rude.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Matthew flashed a winning smile at Cordelia and Alastair. Alastair took a slow sip of his water, hoping to communicate silently that he was not won. Matthew’s green eyes glittered as they met his. “Matthew Fairchild,” he said, extending a hand to Alastair.

Alastair choked on his water. Cordelia stared at him in alarm as Anna thumped him on the back. “Good lord,” Matthew said, hand still extended. “We haven’t met, have we? If so, you’ll have to forgive me for not remembering—I’m rather often forgetting meetings, especially if I was loaded to the gunwall when they occurred. What was it, then? A scandalous one-night tryst? A dispute of some kind?” His eyebrows shot up. “Both at once?”

Alastair sucked air into his lungs with an effort. The simple fact that Charles happened to have a younger brother named Matthew didn’t mean _that_ Matthew Fairchild was _this_ Matthew Fairchild. Surely, it was a common enough name in England. He cleared his throat, shaking his head. “We haven’t met,” he said, hoarsely. “I only lost my breath for a moment.”

Matthew grinned. “That’s quite alright,” he replied. “I tend to have that effect on people.” 

Alastair gave him a withering look. “Alastair Carstairs,” he said shortly. “I would shake your hand, but mine are presently compromised.”

He showed Matthew his hands. “Oh,” Matthew said, a note of surprise in his voice. “Whatever happened to them?”

There was a pause. Alastair, caught under the weight of four pairs of expectant eyes, grimaced deeply.

“I rescued a cow,” he said through his teeth.

Matthew blinked at him. Alastair hoped that Cordelia was observing Matthew’s reaction and regretting her idiocy as fervently as Alastair did. “A cow?” he echoed.

Alastair nodded. “It was trapped in sharp wire,” he said, each word paining him more than the last. “Dreadful business.”

“Ah,” Matthew said. There was a faint crease between his eyebrows. “Most dreadful, indeed. I wish you a quick recovery.”

Alastair could not bring himself to reply anymore. He managed a single grunt of acknowledgement.

Matthew cocked an eyebrow, but only turned his attention to Cordelia. “And who might you be?” he asked.

“Cordelia Carstairs,” Cordelia said. Her charming smile spoke of a steadfast determination to offset Alastair’s impoliteness. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fairchild.”

Matthew put a hand to his chest. “Please,” he said. “The honor is mine. Jests aside, I am glad to see our dear Lucie so thoroughly captivated. Surely, the subject of her admiration must be worthy indeed.”

“Do calm yourself, Matthew,” Anna said, with some amusement. “I can hardly tell which of them you mean to compliment.”

“Why, both of them, naturally.” Matthew shook his head. “What a silly remark. I must return to my crew now, but I hope I shall see more of you tonight.” Alastair was relieved to observe that he seemed to be directing this at the girls.

“You will,” Anna responded, a tad smugly. “Our new guests have agreed to perform.”

“Really!” Matthew’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “That’s fantastic news. We haven't had an interesting act in a good long while.” He winked at Cordelia. “I think everyone’s had rather enough of my poetry readings.”

“Remarkable,” Lucie drawled. “A moment of self-awareness.”

Matthew gasped. “Lucie! You’re supposed to assure me that I am, in fact, endlessly entertaining.” He shook his head. “How I am to recover from such a betrayal, I’ve no idea. You've hurt me deeply, Lucie. I will retreat to my kinder friends.” He drew himself up as though to soothe his wounded pride, but he flashed them a little grin as he strode off.

“Good riddance,” Lucie called cheerfully after him. She nudged Cordelia as they giggled. Alastair turned to Anna.

“You were right,” he said, under his breath. “I will not be able to bear this for long.”

Anna snorted. “Just as I thought.” She pointed to a raised platform at the back of the room, past the sailors’ table. “I’ll get you up there soon, and then you can make a strategic getaway. The crowd is changing. Have you noticed?”

With a start, Alastair realized she was right. The room was louder, now—more crowded, livelier, full of movement. The group of four sailors no longer stuck out like a sore thumb, but he noted that now, they were receiving a different kind of attention. People of all sorts passed by their table to strike up a conversation or bring them fresh drinks. Currently, a stout fisherman-type roared with laughter at something Matthew had said, clapping James heartily on the back.

Alastair’s eyes drifted across to Anna’s brother, who was speaking once more with Thomas, the tall one. Perhaps speaking _with_ wasn’t quite right: Thomas was nodding dutifully along to Christopher’s words, but he seemed rather lost in thought.

As Alastair watched, Thomas’s eyes darted up and found his. They widened as he realized Alastair was already looking at him, and he glanced quickly away again, this time at Christopher. He nodded vigorously at something his cousin had just said, as though nothing had happened, but his large hand rubbed at his neck nervously.

Alastair wondered what his problem was. From somebody else, he might’ve worried that these glances came from a place of prejudice, but he thought this was a rather less likely motive from somebody who’d taken the time to learn the Persian language. He hoped he wasn’t wrong. In his experience, not much good ever came from giving people the benefit of the doubt.

“I think it may be time,” Anna told him. He realized with a start that she’d been watching him keenly as he took in their surroundings. “Are you quite certain you can do this?”

When put that way, it sounded like a challenge. Alastair met Anna’s dark gaze, wondering if she knew she was baiting him. He read quite clearly in her eyes that she did know, and that she also knew it would work.

He smiled thinly. “I suppose I am.”

—

Anna did not have to do much to get the room’s attention. The second she stepped up onto the small stage, Matthew leapt to his feet, whooping loudly. More shouts and cheers followed, ringing from various sides of the room. Anna held her hand up, and the noise quieted.

“Good evening,” she said. “Tonight, we interrupt your daily drudgery with something special.” She paused. “We all know it’s been a difficult time.”

There was a murmur of assent from the crowd. Alastair and Cordelia exchanged a look. He did not have a very good sense of how the problem at sea had been affecting humans, but he gathered it was prevalent enough to be on everyone’s minds.

“We have not had visitors in some weeks,” Anna continued. “At least not from the seaward side.” She gazed over at Alastair and Cordelia with a small smirk. “Today, I am pleased to announce the arrival of Alastair and Cordelia Carstairs.”

She gestured grandly in their direction. The entire room turned to stare at them. Alastair did his best to appear utterly calm. Cordelia gave a little wave.

“My friends,” Anna added, “from the landward side. From land, rather.” Cordelia sent Alastair a glance that clearly said, _Laying it on a bit thick, isn’t she?_ Alastair gritted his teeth. “They’ve traveled all the way from London to visit me, and tonight, they’ve agreed to grace you all with a performance.”

A few more cheers went up in the crowd. Matthew whistled loudly. James tugged him back down onto the bench.

“My sentiments exactly,” Anna said. “Without further ado. All the way from the capital, please welcome Alastair Carstairs!”

Alastair stood, to a smattering of applause. He had never had so many eyes on him at once. His stomach felt like it was trying to crawl up his throat and exit his body. 

But he would not show it. He lifted his chin, holding himself straight, and began to pick his way across the room to Anna. He’d have preferred to move quickly, with confidence, but there were many chairs and tables to dodge. He stepped past someone sitting cross-legged on the floor, and then, much too soon, he was onstage.

Anna leaned close to his ear. “Do you know what you’re singing?” she asked him. 

He nodded. She clapped him on the shoulder and stepped down. 

Alastair was left alone, staring out at his audience. Luckily, they didn’t seem to be paying perfect attention—many were still chattering amongst themselves. Alastair decided to forgo an introduction; Anna had done well enough, and he’d rather just get the entire operation over with. He scanned the room, bracing himself, and his eyes found Cordelia’s. She was smiling at him, encouragingly.

Alastair took a deep breath.

He’d thought this through beforehand and decided his best bet was a merfolk song. Most human songs were terribly awkward to sing without other musical accompaniment, but merfolk songs were _supposed_ to stand alone. They sounded best underwater, where their odd, eerie beauty was enhanced by the ocean’s muffling, reverberating quality, but they were also quite lovely on land. 

Still, he sang in Persian, not English. The lyrics of these songs were always about the sea, and he thought it might be just a little risky to stand up and sing openly about underwater kingdoms when he was posing as a land-dweller.

Paranoid as the thought may be, he preferred the Persian songs, anyway. Now, the words flowed past his lips like a gentle current. To him, these songs were _warm._ Like the water in the Persian Gulf: always sun-touched, always the comforting turquoise of his mother’s tail. He’d felt this warmth since he was a child, listening to her sing. Even now, he could feel it blooming in his chest.

By the time the song was finished, Alastair had forgotten his nervousness. Instead, all he could think about was how much he missed the sea. He stood, still and sad, as various parts of the room cheered for him. Glancing around, he caught Anna’s grin—Cordelia’s faraway look—Lucie perched on the edge of a table, clapping with great enthusiasm.

His gaze fell on the group of sailors. There was a general commotion as various members of it talked and laughed with each other, but Thomas alone was motionless. He had a look on his face rather like he’d seen a ghost. Something about the look triggered an odd feeling in Alastair: like he knew Thomas, or had known him before. But he certainly didn’t—he’d never met one of Alicante’s humans before today.

But that wasn’t true. No, Alastair thought with growing horror, that _wasn’t_ true.

He’d met a boy. The boy in the cave. Small, frightened, stubborn—blinking into the dimness, backing away from him through wet sand. Thomas glanced up now, meeting Alastair’s gaze with wide hazel eyes, and Alastair recalled these same eyes watching him years earlier: full of fear, curiosity, admiration. The sound of his laughter as it echoed around the cave. A voice calling to him from far down the beach: _Thomas!_

Alastair leapt from the stage. He was vaguely aware of confused gazes on him, but his feet were already moving. He wasn’t even sure what his plan was—maybe, if he got out from under Thomas’s scrutiny quickly enough, he wouldn’t be recognized. He made for the nearest exit, sidestepping a drunk woman and shoving through a crowd of men to slip into the hallway that led upstairs.

A hand closed around his arm. Alastair whirled, making to pull away, but he could go nowhere. Thomas was as strong as he looked.

“Let go of me,” he snarled, glaring up into a face that was now clearly familiar. He cursed himself for not making the connection earlier. Thomas released him, but he reached out again as Alastair backed away from him.

“Wait,” he said, hazel eyes still bright with shock.

“What do you want?” Alastair hissed.

Thomas sucked in a slow breath. The hand he held out to Alastair was shaking a little. “I will leave you alone,” he said. “Soon, if you like. But first—” He glanced quickly behind him as a loud laugh echoed down the hallway. When he met Alastair’s gaze once more, his mouth had hardened with resolve. “Can we find somewhere more private? We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, my friends.
> 
> Side note. Italics formatting is going to be the actual death of me. Why have I put myself in a position where I have to do so much of it? I may never know.


	4. Reencounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was very, very difficult to write, for reasons that are still unclear to me. But I am pleased with it at long last! Please enjoy, and thank you as always for reading.
> 
> Also, happy holidays! I wish you all safety, health, and a more pleasant time than Alastair's having in this fic.

_Break, break, break,  
On thy cold gray stones, O sea!  
And I would that my tongue could utter  
The thoughts that arise in me._

— Alfred, Lord Tennyson, _Break, Break, Break_

The day had already been a strange one.

James, though still in recovery from yesterday’s blow to his head, had insisted they go out on the water again. He’d been plagued by unsettling dreams the night before, he’d said—and woken with the sense that something significant was afoot in the sea.

So out they’d gone, despite Matthew’s protests that James was in no condition to do so. Thomas, for his part, had been rather worried that James might steer the ship off course if his mind wasn’t all there. Christopher had theorized, through a bit of incomprehensible medical jargon, that the dreams had been nothing more than a product of James’s injury.

James had dismissed their concerns as excessive dramatics. Thomas had to admit he’d been putting on a brave face admirably. He’d swayed a little on his feet at first, but this had become less evident once they’d left the shore and the natural sway of the ocean had concealed it. Clearly, whatever had happened the night before had shaken James thoroughly if he was so single-minded in his determination to investigate it.

But they’d encountered nothing. All day—and they’d stayed out until after darkness fell—there had been absolutely no action to speak of. This was strikingly rare; it had been weeks since they’d gone out on the water and not seen a single monster. Perhaps, Christopher had suggested upon their dispirited return to shore, this very change was what James had sensed. Perhaps all the monsters had vacated the premises as suddenly as they’d arrived.

James had not looked convinced.

So, under a faint cloud of doubt, the boys had retreated to their second home: Anna’s tavern. And this was where the day’s strangest event had begun.

Upon first glance at the pair of strangers sitting with Lucie, Thomas had recognized his merman immediately. Then he’d backtracked. The young man was clearly _not_ his merman: he had legs. And clothes. And instead of looking back at Thomas in recognition, he’d seemed annoyed. Which was only natural—Thomas had been staring at him like a complete arse.

But as the night had worn on, Thomas had found himself unable to _stop_ staring. It was downright uncanny. The man, though older, was the spitting image of the boy he’d met years ago. Thomas had known this with certainty, because he’d thought of this meeting often in the time since. He had an excellent memory for details, and he believed he would never forget the details of this particular memory: the precise shade of the merman’s skin, the arrogant tilt of his jaw, how he could communicate the entire range of human emotion using only his eyebrows. Every one of these things he’d observed in the man sitting halfway across the room.

It had been nearly impossible for Thomas to wrap his mind around the bizarre but undeniable fact that this person was not a merman, and was indeed a stranger. A stranger who was probably very put off by Thomas’s rude staring. Thomas had wondered if he should strike up a conversation to apologize. _I’m so sorry, it’s just that you look like a merman I know._ He’d sound insane. On the off chance the man believed him, how was he meant to take the comment? _It’s a compliment, I swear—he was a rather beautiful merman._ Drastically insane. Thomas had never so much as entertained the idea of calling a stranger beautiful to their face, and today would not be the day he took after Matthew.

Besides, the man had seemed wholly uninterested in being approached. He’d been gazing around the barroom with barely concealed disdain, when he was not outright glaring at anyone who spoke to him. He’d seemed especially unimpressed by Matthew. Thomas had not been able to hear their conversation, but he could read body language well, and he’d concluded that he’d just witnessed a rare event: Matthew being soundly rejected in an attempt at flirtation. Thomas hadn’t known how to feel about that idea. It had filled him with a strange mix of relief and disappointment—neither of which he’d been eager to unpack.

By the time Anna had taken the stage for the night’s performances and introduced the strangers as Alastair and Cordelia Carstairs, Thomas had resigned himself to the reality that he needed to let this go. He would never work up the nerve to speak to Alastair Carstairs, and so he’d just have to simmer in his own confusion for the remainder of their visit in Alicante. But then Anna had brought Alastair up to perform. And Alastair—standing straight-backed and still, blissfully unaware of Thomas waiting below him with bated breath—had begun to sing.

So Thomas had been thirteen again, alone on the beach as traces of music carried to him on the wind. So the same warmth had washed over him: tangible, slow-growing. So he’d listened, mind numb with shock, to the recognizable low voice, to the lyrics that had once been indecipherable. Thomas’s Persian was not perfect, but now, he’d understood as he couldn’t before. It was a song about the sea.

Alastair Carstairs was his merman. Thomas had felt the truth of it all the way to his core as the room erupted in cheers.

But it made no _sense._ As Alastair stomped up the stairs to the tavern’s upper level, Thomas hot on his heels, Thomas was only vaguely aware of the reality of each passing second. The dimness of the hallway. Candles at intervals on the walls. The familiar tense line of Alastair’s shoulders. Questions flitted about like flies. How was Alastair here? _Why_ was he here? Where had the legs come from—and how did Anna know him—and was his sister also a mermaid? Surely, she was. And now he was being led into a bedroom. 

Alastair waited for Thomas to pass him, shut the door with a _bang,_ and rounded on him.

“You have five minutes,” he said. His black eyes blazed in his stony face.

Thomas took a steadying breath. “You’re a merman.”

There was a pause. Alastair stared at him in the pause. Every inch of his body was stiff and taut: so unlike the fluid creature he’d been when Thomas had seen him last. As Thomas watched, he gave a short shrug that read more like a nervous twitch. “So?”

Thomas blinked at him. “What do you mean, _so?”_

“What do you want me to say?” A helpless look crossed Alastair’s face, followed by an angry one. “I’m not going to bloody deny it, we both know it’s true. What now, then? You run and tell your little crew of friends? You report me to your noble Navy?”

“Obviously not,” Thomas said, aghast. “I won't tell anyone if you don’t want me to. I don’t even see why the Navy should care—”

“Oh you don’t, do you?” Alastair hissed, with such ferocity that Thomas froze. “I suppose they’re not publicizing their merfolk _kill count.”_ He sneered as Thomas stared at him. “Not that you’d care if they did. You’re all heroes, aren’t you?” His words dripped with venom. “Saviors of Alicante’s economy? You’d understand. You know that sacrifices must be made.”

Thomas was lost. He knew only that Alastair was very upset, and that a great deal of this upset was currently being directed at him. This seemed rather unfair. “I don’t understand,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level. “You don’t mean the Navy’s been killing merfolk?”

Alastair closed his eyes and made as if to pinch the bridge of his nose, but dropped his hand instantly with a wince. Thomas’s gaze followed the movement and caught on the bandages: carefully wrapped around Alastair’s palms and every one of his fingers. He’d noticed them earlier with some concern, but they had new significance now that he knew for sure who he was dealing with. He wondered what on earth could have necessitated them. 

“I hardly know how widespread it is,” Alastair said at last, like this should be obvious. “I only know what I have seen.”

Thomas’s breath caught. “What have you seen?”

Alastair met his gaze. There was a small storm in his dark eyes. “A mermaid,” he said. “I didn’t know her. Never even knew her name. But she—she tried to help me, and—” He stopped.

“And what?” Thomas prompted gently.

Alastair shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m even speaking to you,” he muttered. “It isn’t as if I know you.”

“You _do,_ though.” Thomas took a step forward—Alastair stepped away from him and flinched in surprise as his back hit the door. Thomas stopped. Alastair glared at him steadily. There was genuine fear visible all over him: as though he’d drawn it about him like a cloak. 

Thomas couldn’t tell how much the fear had to do with himself. It seemed on the whole far bigger and broader than he had any way of knowing at present. But he wanted, desperately, to have no part in it. Not for the first time, he wished he didn’t occupy quite so much _space_ in the world. He knew his size sometimes made him more intimidating than he meant to be.

He cast a quick glance around. The room was small, but lovelier than he’d have expected. Like the rest of the tavern, most of its surfaces were colored various shades of blue: the walls, the bedspread on the four-poster bed, the leather furniture. Candles burned low on the desk and in the wall sconces. In the fireplace, charred logs smoldered faintly, encrusted with bright dots of orange light. Thomas wondered if Alastair knew how to revive the fire—he suspected not. Hopefully, there’d be servants around to address it. 

In the corner of the room behind him, near the dying fire, was an armchair. This would suffice. As Alastair watched, Thomas backed away from him and lowered himself carefully into it.

Now Alastair just looked confused. Thomas supposed that was better than afraid, although not quite what he’d been going for. At least he was no longer towering quite so much.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” Alastair said. His tone indicated that he meant to be snappish but hadn’t fully committed to snapping. Thomas shifted awkwardly.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just—things were getting tense.”

Alastair snorted, then looked abruptly surprised at himself. “Tense,” he echoed, wonderingly. He looked like he wanted to say more, but seemed to decide against it. He leaned his head back against the door, gazing down at Thomas. His eyes were arrestingly black, particularly in the low light. 

“Alastair,” Thomas said. It was strange to finally put a name to the face he’d known so long ago. He wondered, belatedly, if he shouldn’t have jumped straight to such a familiar form of address, but Alastair didn’t seem to have a problem with it. Either that, or it ranked relatively low on his current list of problems. Thomas hoped it wasn’t the second thing. 

Alastair raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Thomas?”

Thomas’s heart leapt, until he remembered that Alastair might not know his surname. Still, he’d take it as a step in the right direction. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he said.

Alastair looked supremely unimpressed by this statement. Thomas quickly amended it.

“Of me,” he added. “I gather you have a great many things to be afraid of. But I am not one of them.” He swallowed. “I don’t want to be.”

Alastair scoffed. “I’m not _afraid_ of you.” He stared cooly at Thomas. “I simply have no trust or regard for you or those like you.”

“Those like me?” Thomas repeated steadily.

Alastair wrinkled his nose. “Sailors,” he said. “All you who plague the sea with your heroics.”

Thomas took a slow breath. “Because you watched the Navy kill a mermaid?”

He saw his answer in Alastair’s face.

“Oh,” Thomas said. He was surprised despite himself: somehow, that hadn’t seemed like a real possibility, even as he had sensed Alastair leading up to it. Then he was horrified. “Oh _no.”_

“Indeed,” Alastair said shortly. “So you see why nobody must know—”

He cut off abruptly as Thomas leapt to his feet. “The goddamn Navy,” he cried, outraged. “I knew they were awful, but I—I’d never have guessed. _Never.”_ He sucked in a breath. “Oh, God. That can’t be true.”

Alastair only watched him silently, still leaning back against the door. He was a little wide-eyed. Thomas remembered why he had been sitting in the first place, and lowered himself shakily back into the chair. His head spun with disbelief.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He took a short breath. “I don’t understand…what would ever be the need. To kill a mermaid.” He was beginning to feel rather sick to his stomach. “Even if they thought she was a siren…” He shook his head. “They should have made _sure._ There are ways—we chain ourselves to the deck if we spot them—” He couldn’t get his thoughts together. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “That is a _person,”_ he said, weakly. “They’re supposed to be protecting people. And they _killed_ one.”

Alastair still said nothing. Thomas was almost afraid to look back up at him, but he did anyway. Alastair’s expression was unreadable. His fingers curled in as though he meant to clench them into fists, but then they loosened again. He released a slow breath through his teeth, like the action had pained him. Thomas’s heart gave a little lurch of sympathy. 

“Your hands,” he said, quietly. “What happened to them?”

Alastair was silent for another moment, as though struggling with whether or not to answer. Finally, he shook his head in a tired sort of way. “It doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me,” Thomas said instinctively, and flushed at his own words. 

Alastair made an impatient noise. “Bloody hell,” he said. “I don’t _care_ if it matters to you. I don’t _know_ you.” He looked more bewildered than anything. “It is a long, troublesome story, and I do not wish to rehash it for the thirtieth time.” He fixed narrowed eyes on Thomas. “Are you always this nosy?”

Thomas blushed even deeper. Alastair was right—Thomas had no place pressing him on the issue. He hadn’t the faintest idea what it was about Alastair that caused him to lose all sense of propriety. With a fresh rush of mortification, he recalled making similar blunders years ago: entranced by the chance to speak with a merman, posing all manner of inappropriate questions without a care in the world. Alastair must think him terribly rude.

“Good lord, you _are,”_ Alastair said suddenly, as though he’d taken the same trip down memory lane. But there was an odd light in his eyes, and as Thomas watched, the corner of his mouth curved up in a slow smirk. It was a smirk of amusement: at Thomas’s expense, certainly, but not with any particular malicious intent. There was something open about it, in sharp contrast to Alastair’s many other facial expressions. Something that invited Thomas to share in the amusement, if he so chose.

Thomas recalled this smirk, too. He was very glad to see it make an appearance again.

He cleared his throat. “You do remember our meeting, then?” he asked hesitantly.

Alastair huffed out a breath. “I remember that you had many questions,” he said. He raised an eyebrow at Thomas, tilting his head thoughtfully. “I remember that you were a wee little thing.” His eyes made a slow journey from Thomas’s head down to his feet. By the time they reached Thomas’s face again, Thomas was sure he’d never stop blushing. He felt a little jittery too, like he had a chill. Maybe he’d begun to run a fever. That’d be a right nightmare—he still couldn’t weather even a simple illness without all his family and friends descending on him like a pack of concerned vultures. 

“I see that is no longer the case,” Alastair said finally. 

Thomas shrugged sheepishly. “I grew a bit.”

“A bit,” Alastair echoed. “I’ll say. You’re bloody gigantic!” He shook his head. “Wasted on a land-dweller.”

Thomas frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Your height,” Alastair said, like this was obvious. “What do you even use it for?”

Thomas blinked at him. “I, ah,” he began, floundering. “It has uses.”

Alastair looked dubious. “Like what? Reaching the top shelf?” He lifted his chin in a superior manner. “Anyone can do that with the use of a ladder.”

Thomas was beginning to feel defensive, which was ridiculous. It wasn’t as if he had _chosen_ to be this tall. “I don’t know!” he said. “Anyone would tell you it has uses. Humans consider it…a desirable quality.”

Alastair’s eyebrows shot up, and Thomas immediately backtracked.

“I mean, desirable in the sense that…it’s _useful—”_

“Oh no, I caught your meaning perfectly,” Alastair interrupted, with a wicked grin. “I understand now.”

Thomas sputtered. He was certain that he must be feverish. It had rained out at sea earlier, after all—maybe he’d caught a cold. “I take it height presents a considerable advantage underwater?” he managed.

Alastair nodded, a smirk still playing about his face. “If you had a tail, it would be very long. Strong as well, judging by your build. You’d be faster than anything else around.”

Thomas straightened, interested by this image. “Really? I’d have thought my size would slow me down.”

Alastair shrugged. “I think the sheer firepower of a tail that long would cancel out anything else. As long as you have the muscle to support it.” He flattened his bandaged palm gingerly against his waistcoat, around his stomach. “Here.”

“It’s a shame I don’t have a tail,” Thomas said, wistfully. Alastair quirked an eyebrow at this. “I would like to know what it’s like,” Thomas elaborated. “Even just for a day.”

“Far better than legs,” Alastair assured him immediately.

Thomas smiled. “You don’t care much for the legs?”

Alastair shuddered. “They’re awful. Abhorrent. Such a ridiculous shape. And so fragile! How on earth can you depend on them for your movement?”

Thomas laughed, the sound escaping him without his permission. “You don’t like the _shape_ of them?” he demanded. “How would you like them shaped?”

Alastair made a face. “More like a tail, I suppose. I know it’s best to have two of them, but they might at least be wider and stronger.” He gestured to Thomas. “Yours are fine,” he said, in an accusatory sort of way. “I wouldn’t mind this horrid business so much if I had _your_ legs.”

Thomas was breathless with laughter now. “Good lord,” he wheezed. “That’s an image.”

Alastair looked offended. “We can’t all be giants,” he said peevishly.

Thomas shook his head quickly, struggling to catch his breath. “I just mean—my legs on your body—” He could see from Alastair’s expression that he was not going to be able to explain the ludicrousness of this idea. “Never mind. The point is, your legs suit you.”

Alastair raised his eyebrows. “They do, do they?”

Thomas blushed again. “In that…they’re the correct size. For your body.”

Alastair nodded sagely, his eyes narrowed in amusement. “I see. You have a way with words, you know. I imagine this is how you woo women.” He put a hand to his chest and fixed Thomas with such a charming smile that Thomas inhaled sharply, startled. This, he’d _never_ seen from Alastair before. “Ah, Miss Everett,” Alastair sang, in a deeper imitation of Thomas’s voice. “You might be the fairest lady I’ve ever seen. Surely the fairest within a square kilometer, at least.” His eyes glittered with glee. “You see, your _legs_ are the correct size for your _body.”_

Thomas groaned, covering his face with his hands. His cheeks were red-hot against his palms. “You’re a menace,” he complained. Alastair laughed loudly.

“You make it easy,” he countered. Thomas dropped his hands to glare at him. “Alright, alright, I’m finished.” He was still grinning, though. Thomas realized with a start that his stance against the door was far more relaxed. It brought to mind a detail he’d forgotten: that Alastair, initially horrified to be discovered in the cave, had been put at ease by his own amusement over Thomas’s blundering. It would seem that laughing at Thomas was a reliable mood-lifter for him. Thomas wasn’t sure how to feel about that. It was perhaps not the most ideal, but it was something. 

“Speaking of legs,” he said, eager to change the subject. “Where did yours come from?”

Alastair sent a distasteful glance down at them. “Nowhere good,” he said. Then he shrugged, meeting Thomas’s gaze again. “It’s like anything else. We’re not humans, but we’re also not fish—we’re magical creatures, like sirens or kelpies. It’s magic of a sort that allows us to transform.” He tugged down a corner of his high-collared shirt, tilting his head to show Thomas the bare brown stretch of his neck. “My gills are gone too, for now. Convenient trick, that—they would certainly be difficult to explain.”

Thomas had so many questions, he hardly knew where to start. _“All_ mermaids can grow legs, then?”

Alastair nodded, fixing his collar. “Yes. Sirens, however, cannot.”

Thomas blinked at him. “Really? Why not?”

“No idea.” Alastair shrugged again. “They’re a different species from us entirely. Historically, we’ve even been at odds.” He raised an eyebrow. “Lucky, though, isn’t it? Can you imagine the havoc they’d wreak if they could come ashore?”

Thomas had a sudden vision of sirens-with-legs descending upon Alicante, singing their irresistible song like the Pied Piper until every last human had raced to the docks and drowned themselves. He gaped, horrified. “That _is_ lucky.”

“Otherwise, yes.” Alastair emphasized. “We can all do it.”

Thomas was struck by a thought. “Does that mean I’ve met merfolk before, without knowing?”

“Possible, but not likely.” Alastair shook his head. “It’s a real ordeal to come ashore. Each time I’ve done it with my family, we’ve needed at least one human to help us, and that’s always dangerous.” He grimaced. “High risk, low reward. We’re not meant to be on land, so it can be quite miserable. I don't think merfolk do it very often, unless there's an emergency.”

“Is that why you’re here now?” Thomas asked, somewhat hesitantly. “Because of the present emergency at sea?”

Something closed off abruptly in Alastair’s face. In the span of a second, all traces of his relaxed, smirking self vanished: leaving behind the stiff, scowling person he’d been minutes earlier. The transformation was stunning in its swiftness. Regret tugged at Thomas’s heart. Still, he took a slow, determined breath.

“We don’t have to talk long about this, if you don’t wish to,” he added. “But I think it is a fair question.”

Alastair gave him a sharp look. _“You_ think all questions are fair questions,” he replied, derisively.

Thomas was hurt, despite himself. “I don’t,” he protested. “I know I’ve asked some inappropriate things, and I do apologize for that. But to a certain extent, one has to be able to make _conversation,_ Alastair. Personal as this question may be, it is also rather fundamental. Especially as my friends and I are currently trying to help make the sea safer.”

Alastair rolled his eyes. “For merchant ships—”

“Yes, that’s the Navy’s goal.” Thomas interjected. “And ours as well—we certainly don’t want any more shipwrecks. But we also care for _sea_ life. Merfolk, of course, and the many other creatures being hurt by this disaster.” He gestured in the general direction of the barroom. “My cousin Christopher will wax poetic about the damage this is doing to ecosystems, if you let him. We want to do whatever we can. And we would _never_ kill a mermaid.” He winced. “Well, that’s a low bar.”

“The lowest,” Alastair agreed, darkly. He did not look particularly impressed by Thomas’s speech, but he had, at the very least, stopped radiating hostility. He tilted his head back against the door and gazed up at the ceiling, sighing through his teeth. “Look,” he said. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I do recognize that you and your friends are risking your lives for this nonsense. But I have to be frank with you: whatever you’re doing is not enough.” He glanced down at Thomas, chin still lifted. “It’s worse in the sea than any of you could possibly know. There are…so many of them.” He looked suddenly exhausted. “More than any number of warships could hope to kill.”

There was a calmness about him that contrasted sharply with his bleak words. Thomas felt a dull sort of horror.

“Is it really that bad?” he asked, quietly.

Alastair nodded, head sliding up and down the door. His eyes had slipped shut. “I don’t know how we’ll ever return,” he murmured. The words only barely reached Thomas from across the room. He had the sense they weren’t meant for him. 

Distressed, he searched for something to say to Alastair—anything to break the somber silence that had settled between them. As though the universe had read his mind, there was a sudden, sharp rapping at the door. Alastair leapt about a foot in the air.

“Mr. Carstairs?” a voice called, as Alastair stumbled back toward Thomas, cursing. “Are you quite alright?”

It was Anna’s voice. Alastair made a frustrated little gesture and spun for the door, still muttering under his breath. He swung it open to reveal Anna’s lean silhouette lounging in the doorway. “Hello,” she said. “That was the least strategic getaway I’ve ever seen. I do applaud your instinct for drama, however. Stunning an entire room with your talent and then immediately running for the hills?” Her eyes sparkled. “Positively inspired. They’ll be talking about you for weeks.”

Alastair did not reply. Anna’s gaze moved from him to Thomas. “And I see you’ve kidnapped my cousin,” she added. “You’ve had a productive night, haven’t you?”

“I suppose that’s one word for it,” Alastair muttered. He moved out of the doorway so Anna could step in. As she shut the door behind her, he strode to his bed and lowered himself slowly down onto the edge of it. 

Anna remained standing. She crossed her arms, glancing between them suspiciously. “I’m not interrupting a conflict of some sort, am I?” 

Thomas looked to Alastair. _Was_ she interrupting a conflict? He didn’t think it was as simple as that. Much to his relief, Alastair shook his head. He had leaned his weight sideways against one of the bedposts, and a few locks of dark hair had fallen into his face. The new angle of the candlelight cast bruise-like circles under his eyes. Something in Thomas ached at the sight—he wasn’t sure why.

“Thomas and I are merely old acquaintances,” Alastair explained, in a low voice. He was watching Thomas, too, with an unreadable expression. “Nothing to concern yourself about.”

“On the contrary,” Anna responded, eyebrows arching upward, “that information interests me immensely. But you look as if you might drop dead, so I’ll spare you for now. Thomas can face the interrogation on his own.”

She glanced meaningfully at Thomas. “Oh, good,” Thomas said dryly, but he rose to his feet, smoothing his trousers with both palms. Anna was certainly right about Alastair. He was still staring at Thomas, but he’d gone a bit glassy-eyed.

“You are _gigantic,”_ he whispered angrily, like the fact of it exhausted him. Anna snorted. Thomas shook his head, but he found himself smiling a little.

“Goodnight, Alastair,” he replied.

“Yes,” Anna agreed, as Thomas moved for the door. “Sweet dreams, _lladdwr._ I’ll see you in the morning—we have some things to address.”

Thomas turned back to frown at her as she followed him out into the dark hallway, shutting the door carefully behind her. He couldn’t possibly have heard that Welsh right. But before he could ask her to clarify, he heard soft footsteps approaching them on the carpet.

“Is he alright?” It was Cordelia, Alastair’s sister. Most of her was in shadow, but a nearby candle backlit her, edging her in gold. Thomas could barely make out her anxious face.

“He will be,” Anna said, “tomorrow morning. At present I think not.”

Cordelia made a sad little sound. “Has he gone to bed?” she asked. “I wanted to change his bandages.”

“Leave that for tomorrow,” Anna suggested. “But he’s not asleep yet, if you’d like to—” She broke off as Cordelia darted between them, disappearing into Alastair’s room in a rustle of skirts. The door clicked quietly shut behind her. Anna blinked at Thomas in the dimness. “Alright then,” she said. “Would you accompany me to the sitting room, dear cousin?”

—

The sitting room was also dim, but less so. The candles in the chandelier were lit, and in the fireplace, the fire blazed with great fervor. Thomas sat at the table, large hands folded in front of him, and told Anna how he and Alastair had first met. He left out the mortifying bits, of which there were many. Anna began the story pacing lazily about the room with a cigar, but by the time he’d finished, she was seated across from him, blue eyes sharp with attentiveness and amusement. Then Cordelia joined them, and Thomas relayed it a second time for her benefit.

“Alastair never told me _any_ of that,” Cordelia said afterwards, with some amazement. She was sitting adjacent to Thomas, in the chair closest to the fireplace. Her thick hair had been let freely down her back and shoulders—possibly in service of her own performance—and appeared to still be damp in some places. Thomas imagined she must be quite cold, though she was hiding it well. Only her hands, trembling faintly on the table, gave her away.

“I didn’t tell anyone either,” Thomas admitted. “It felt important not to.” He looked to Anna, who was crouched beside the fireplace, tapping away ash from her cigar. “Anna, does the restaurant serve tea this late at night? I find I’ve caught a bit of a chill.”

Anna arched an eyebrow. The fire cast erratic shadows over the fine-boned angles of her face. “I’ll do you one better,” she said. She cast the remains of the cigar into the flames and rose to her feet. “Cordelia, are you comfortable being left with Thomas for sixty seconds?”

Thomas frowned. “There’s no need for that,” he said. “I was planning to go down myself.”

“Yes, but your plan has been usurped by my plan.” Anna passed him, ruffling his hair as she went.

“I’m quite alright,” Cordelia piped up. She offered Thomas a small smile.

“Very good.” Anna turned in the doorway, a silhouette against the hallway. “I’ll be back.”

And she was gone. Cordelia met Thomas’s gaze. Her eyes were the same deep black as Alastair’s, but they had an altogether softer look to them. 

“Thank you,” she said.

Thomas feigned ignorance. “What for?”

“You know what for.” She smiled again, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders. “You’re all very kind, you know. It makes this so much easier for us.”

“It’s not easy at all, though, is it?” Thomas asked quietly.

She seemed to hesitate. Finally, she shook her head, so slightly it was almost imperceptible. “No.” She sighed, glancing down at the table between them. “We’re only here because we have to be. Our home has become too dangerous.” She gestured vaguely towards the hallway. “My mother is due to give birth soon.”

Thomas blinked. “Your mother is here?” 

Cordelia nodded. “We left largely for her sake,” she explained. “And because Alastair is injured—although, if I know him, he’d never have considered that justification enough on its own.”

Thomas wanted to ask where their father was, but that seemed like potentially rocky territory to traverse with a near stranger. “Alastair mentioned that merfolk have trouble on land,” he said instead.

“Not all of us,” she replied, absently. “But…yes. Most of us do.”

Thomas watched with some trepidation as her jaw worked. She looked like she had a great deal on her mind. “How so?” he asked, hesitantly.

Cordelia glanced up at him. “If you’re asking for Alastair,” she said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to him—we experience it differently.” Thomas gaped at her, startled, but she moved on as though the words hadn’t meant to imply anything at all. “For me, it’s more mental than physical, although there are some physical elements.” She smiled sadly. “The cold, for one. I’m afraid I’ll never really shake it. Imagine, for a moment, that you could breathe underwater—you’d still struggle with the ocean’s chill, would you not?”

Thomas remembered standing knees-deep in the freezing tide pool, marveling at Alastair’s seeming immunity to it. “Certainly,” he replied.

She nodded. “Well, something similar happens to me on land. Air is not the element I’m most suited to.”

“But that’s awful!” Thomas exclaimed, horrified. “How can you bear it?”

Cordelia shrugged, looking resigned. “I simply do. Alastair will have his own burdens to bear, as will my mother. All we can do is endure it while we must.”

There was an odd sinking feeling somewhere inside Thomas. “How long must you?”

Cordelia released a long, slow breath. “I don’t know,” she replied, quietly. “I’ve promised Alastair he and I will return to the sea once his wounds are healed, but—” She shook her head. “The situation might get worse. We will go as soon as we can—that’s all I can say.”

Thomas felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. The words _return to the sea_ reverberated through his head with an increasingly panicked energy. They’d go back, though their home might kill them. They’d leave the safety of land, leave their mother, leave Alicante and all those they’d met there.

 _Because they must,_ he reminded himself. He wanted to say it was too dangerous, but he thought of Cordelia shivering, the dark circles under Alastair’s eyes, and held his tongue. He wanted to offer Cordelia another option, but there was none. He had no place offering council. This was not something he could ever understand.

“I see,” he said instead, keeping his tone neutral. He swallowed. “Your brother wouldn’t say how he was wounded.”

Cordelia hummed. “If he wouldn't say, I don’t think I should.”

“Of course,” Thomas assured her quickly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She met his gaze with warmth in her dark eyes. “You strike me as someone who has only the best intentions.”

Thomas was equal parts embarrassed and grateful. “Thank you,” he said, quietly.

Cordelia smiled. “My brother is a private person,” she told him. Thomas had, in fact, noticed this, but he held himself back from saying so. “Don’t take it personally—he conceals things even from me.”

Thomas wondered how Cordelia could know that with such certainty. But before he could ask, the door swung open again, and Anna slunk into the room with a tray.

“Sorry for the delay,” she said, shutting the door with her shoulder. She cocked her head at Thomas. “I was waylaid by your friends wanting to know where you’d gone.”

Thomas had nearly forgotten that his friends were still downstairs. That other world of loud banter and drunken merriment felt very far away. “What did you tell them?”

Anna set the tray down on the table before them. It held three goblets and a ceramic pitcher from which steam wafted generously. “I told them you’d met Mr. Carstairs before. In _London,”_ she clarified, as Cordelia and Thomas looked to her in alarm. She slid into a chair and began pouring dark liquid into each of the goblets. “I know you’ve been before, Thomas, so it’s plausible enough. They’re under the impression you’ve been reacquainting yourselves, which is not far off.” She put the pitcher back down, smiling faintly. “Best to stick as close to the truth as possible, in these situations.”

“Do you find yourself in many of these situations?” Cordelia asked curiously.

“None quite like this,” Anna told her, “but I do keep secrets for very many interesting characters.” She passed cups to Cordelia and Thomas and held her own aloft. “Cheers to keeping this one successfully. Well, almost successfully.”

Cordelia laughed as their metal goblets collided. “Between myself and Alastair, we’ve had some trouble, haven’t we?”

Anna nodded, eyes twinkling over the edge of her cup. “You’re lucky that Thomas is kind and Lucie is trusting. Otherwise, you might have a real problem on your hands.”

Thomas took a ginger sip of his drink, finding it to be hot red wine. “What’s Lucie got to do with this?”

Cordelia looked sheepish. She’d wrapped her hands around the bowl of her goblet and was holding it to her chest like a precious treasure. “I rescued Lucie from drowning when we were both quite young,” she said. “Likely around the time you first met Alastair.”

Thomas gasped, sitting up straight. _“You’re_ the beautiful mermaid?” 

Anna laughed loudly as Cordelia blushed. “Yes,” she said, sounding pained. “Has she told _everyone_ that story?”

“It’s her favorite story to tell,” Anna said. “It’s a wonder you weren’t recognized.”

Cordelia huffed out a breath. “In her defense, I didn’t recognize her either! And I remember the whole business as well as she does.” She shuddered. “It was terrifying. We didn’t exactly have time to memorize each other’s facial features.”

“No, I imagine not.” Anna looked amused. “Still, quite a coincidence. As is your brother’s connection to Thomas.” She raised an eyebrow at Cordelia. “Can we expect any further coincidences?”

“I certainly hope not,” Cordelia said, with feeling. A shadow passed briefly across her face, as though she’d had a thought, but she appeared to shake it off. “No,” she said, “England’s not _that_ small. I can’t imagine we’ll meet anyone else we know.”

Anna looked like she’d seen the same thing Thomas had, but she didn’t press Cordelia on it. Instead, she drained the rest of her cup and returned it to the tray with a flourish. “Did you come up to go to bed, Miss Carstairs?” she asked. “We didn’t mean to keep you.”

Cordelia shook her head. “I came up to see Alastair,” she said. “Although, I do find myself growing tired.”

Anna smiled. “You began today in the ocean and ended it in this very room, stopping along the way to dazzle my patrons with your storytelling. I think you’ve earned some exhaustion.”

Thomas followed her lead, tilting his head back to let the rest of the wine sear his throat. It warmed his chest as he lowered his cup back down. “I should probably head out as well,” he said. “As far as my friends know, I’ve been getting reacquainted with Alastair this entire time. I wouldn’t want to make them suspicious.”

Cordelia set her goblet on the table and stood, shrugging her coat off. Thomas realized with a start that it was actually _James’s_ coat: the black velvet one he wore nearly every day. She held it out to Thomas, a little mournfully. “Would you take this down to Mr. Herondale?” she asked.

Thomas stood too, but hesitated. Cordelia’s dress did not look nearly as warm. “You could keep it for tonight,” he suggested. “I’m sure James wouldn’t mind—we’ll almost certainly be back tomorrow, and you could return it then.”

She shook her head. “No, he must have it back.” There was an odd gleam in her eyes, but she smiled at Thomas. “Besides, I’d only grow more attached to it the longer I spent on land. It smells of the sea.”

Thomas felt a familiar ache as she passed the soft coat into his outstretched hands. He recognized it now as an ache on behalf of these merfolk, these lovely and strange and utterly interesting people. What an awful, impossible situation they’d found themselves in.

Cordelia bid them goodnight and disappeared, taking her refilled goblet with her. Anna and Thomas went back out into the hallway. As they started downstairs, the familiar sound of the night crowd rose around them.

“They’ll be out in full force now,” Anna said to him, as they emerged into the barroom. She was right. It was far more crowded than he’d left it: a chaotic mess of people tangling themselves across the space. He saw raised glasses, arms slung over shoulders, dresses in various bright colors. Then he saw his friends, beckoning to him from the other side of the room.

“Good luck,” Anna murmured into his ear. Thomas turned to reply, but she was already headed to the bar. With a small sigh, he began to pick his way through the mayhem.

“Tom!” Matthew shouted as he approached, risen half out of his seat. “There you are! What in the blazes was that about?”

Thomas reclaimed his spot beside Christopher, passing James’s coat across the table. James thanked him with a smile. 

“You missed the most stunning performance,” Matthew added gleefully, plopping back down onto the bench. Thomas opened his mouth to protest that he’d been there with them for Alastair’s performance, but then he realized that Matthew must be talking about Cordelia’s. “But never mind that.” He leaned forward onto the table, eyes sparkling. “Tell us about Alastair Carstairs.”

James took a sip of his beer, looking amused. “Matthew was certain he’d murdered you.”

Thomas stared at Matthew, aghast. Matthew shrugged. “You were up there an awful long time,” he said. “I thought we couldn’t rule it out as a possibility. That, or the two of you had put one of the tavern beds to proper use.” He grinned wickedly. “I figured it was one or the other.”

Thomas felt like his entire face was on fire. “It was _neither,”_ he hissed, “you bloody _nuisance.”_ His friends roared with laughter as he scowled at them. His stomach felt oddly unsteady, like it sometimes did at sea. “Alastair is an old acquaintance,” he said, through his teeth. “We were catching up.”

Matthew quieted at last, though his cheeks were still rosy with mirth. “An old acquaintance you’re on a first name basis with?” he inquired.

“Indeed,” Thomas returned calmly, “after reacquainting ourselves tonight.”

“That seems reasonable,” Christopher piped up, clearly in Thomas’s defense. Thomas sent him a grateful look.

“Yes, reasonable enough,” Matthew said, waving him off. “Also reasonable, I think, to be curious. I do miss having strangers about, and the Carstairs strike me as especially interesting strangers.” He raised a golden eyebrow. “That you know one of them already intrigues me.”

Thomas reached for the nearest half-empty beer, hoping distantly that it was his. “Nothing intriguing about it, really,” he said, avoiding Matthew’s gaze. He needed to get this over with as quickly as possible—lying had never been his forte. “We met once years ago, the first time my parents took me to London. It wasn’t even a very memorable meeting, which is why it took us so long to recognize each other.”

Matthew seemed to buy this easily enough. “Quite a coincidence,” he remarked, without suspicion. “Is it a pleasant one?”

Thomas frowned. “I’m sorry?”

Matthew propped his chin in his hand. “Do you like Carstairs, I mean? I got the impression he’s rather on the sour side. Though he sings like a siren, which might make up for it.”

Thomas tensed automatically at the comparison. He struggled to regain his composure as Christopher groaned. “Let’s not speak of sirens,” Christopher pleaded. 

“Agreed,” James muttered darkly.

Matthew rolled his eyes. _“Anyway.”_ He looked meaningfully at Thomas.

Thomas hesitated. “You’re not wrong. About the sourness, I mean. But…yes. I like him.” He left it at that, uncertain of what might come out of his mouth if asked to elaborate.

There was a glint in Matthew’s eyes that made Thomas nervous. But he only said, “Good. I think they shall make a fine addition to our lives, then.” 

James smiled faintly. “Lucie was quite taken with Miss Carstairs.”

Matthew cast him an incredulous look over the rim of his glass. “Oh, sure, _Lucie_ was the one taken with Miss Carstairs.”

James flushed. Thomas cleared his throat, aiming to rescue him. “Where is Lucie, by the way?”

“She went home,” James said, seeming grateful for the intrusion. “After Miss Carstairs excused herself.”

Matthew hummed. “You might consider doing the same, Jamie.” He reached over to roughly ruffle James’s hair; James cringed back, batting his hand away. “Your poor unfortunate head needs a rest, especially if we’re going back out tomorrow.”

James shifted forward in his seat again. “I would like to go back out,” he said. He looked like he wanted to say more, but his mouth twisted uncertainly. Thomas cast him a sympathetic look.

“Today was unsettling,” he said, “wasn’t it?”

James nodded. He had yet to put his coat back on: instead, it sat in a great pile in his lap. As Thomas watched, he hugged it to his chest with both arms. “Something is afoot,” he said. “I don’t know what, but I don’t think it’s good.”

A somber silence followed his words. Christopher fidgeted with his fingers, frowning. There was a look in his eyes that always appeared when he was thinking intently about a problem. Matthew said, “I should ask my brother whether any of the Navy spotted anything today. If they did not, we know for certain whether we should be unsettled.”

 _The Navy._ Thomas’s conversation with Alastair came back all at once, along with a powerful rush of anger. Thinking only of the pursuit of justice, he said abruptly, “I heard that the Navy is killing mermaids.”

They all stared at him. Matthew’s eyes widened, eyebrows arching up his forehead. “Excuse me?” he said, sounding flabbergasted. “Where on earth did you hear that?”

Thomas was stunned into silence by his own idiocy. He was a horrid liar, but he couldn’t tell the _truth_ here. What was he meant to say?

“Why didn’t you tell us before now?” James asked, looking thoroughly confused. “If that’s true, it’s a very big deal—”

“Big deal?” Matthew echoed. He’d leaned so far forward on the table that he had to hold himself up on it with both palms. “It’s downright evil! Who told you that, Thomas?”

Thomas swallowed. “Alastair did,” he said. There was a pause in which his friends continued to stare at him and Thomas continued to wish he would die on the spot. “He heard it from someone else,” he added in a near whisper, hoping to save the situation. “I do not know who.”

Matthew blinked at him. “He’s only just arrived!” he pointed out. “Who would have told him that?”

Thomas regretted every single decision that had led him to this moment. “I don’t know,” he said, struggling to sound perfectly calm. “Maybe he was asking around about the Navy.” He hesitated. “I think perhaps his encounters with them in London gave him an unfavorable view of them. He seems to quite despise them, from what I can tell.”

“Ah,” Matthew said, sitting straight again. He looked pleased by this idea. “A man after my own heart.”

“That’s interesting,” James added. “Especially as his father died at sea. I wonder if that has anything to do with it.”

Thomas started. So that was the truth of Alastair’s father. It was a terrible truth, and he knew there was probably more to it. His stomach sank at the thought.

Matthew drummed his fingers against his glass, green eyes narrowed. “That is so awful I almost can’t believe it’s true,” he said. “But I’ll see if I can weasel anything out of Charles.”

“Yes, do investigate, would you?” Christopher asked anxiously. “If they’re killing indiscriminately, that would be…very bad for the sea.” He sucked in a breath. “Very bad indeed.”

Thomas knew he had chosen his friends for a reason. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I know it’s rather vague and uncertain, especially for something so major. I just thought it worth mentioning.”

“You thought correctly.” Matthew rubbed the bridge of his nose, rings flashing in the low light. “Good lord. It’s one thing after another these days, isn’t it?”

The group murmured their assent. Thomas certainly agreed, but at the same time, he felt an odd sense of relief. Yes, the sea was a disaster; yes, they may have problems with the very people assigned to protect it. And yet, they’d seen no monsters today. And yet, one way or another, attention would be brought to the Navy’s misdeeds. And yet, Alastair and Cordelia slept safely somewhere above him.

He tapped his glass gently against Matthew’s, which was sitting on the table. Matthew looked from him to the joined glasses and back again, head tilted curiously. “Are we cheersing?” he asked. “Whatever for?”

Thomas returned his glass to his lips. He took a long sip, letting the comforting sourness of the dark beer wash over his senses. “For ourselves,” he said at last, holding his cup aloft. “And the solutions to these problems, which we will find.” He looked at each of them in turn. “I know we will.”

James smiled. Matthew said, “Thomas, what is this horrid behavior? You know I’m allergic to optimism.” But he was grinning. He lifted his own glass and smashed it merrily against Thomas’s. James and Christopher followed.

“To the sea,” Christopher declared.

James’s golden eyes were warm. “To my crew,” he said. “I could wish for none better.”

Matthew shook his head. “You’re all a bunch of saps,” he complained. He knocked back the rest of his drink and stood. “To greater success tomorrow,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “Let’s go home.”

—

When Alastair woke, it was to criminally bright sunlight pouring into his room. 

He rolled over in his bed, wincing as the sheets rustled loudly. This was a sound, he couldn’t help but note, that would’ve gone unnoticed underwater. The world of the sea was muffled, as all things should be. Here, every noise had an unfamiliar crispness. 

Alastair peeled open his eyes, squinting at the offending window. He must have forgotten to pull the curtains last night; he hadn’t thought to. This was the first time he’d ever slept a full night on land. But he was not unfamiliar with bedrooms and how they worked—it had been stupid to forget the curtains. Cursing, he threw back the covers and stumbled out of bed.

His head spun so ferociously that he had to steady himself on the nearest periwinkle wall. Sighing, he closed his eyes and leaned sideways against it. Somebody shouted outside his window, a level below. The hardwood floor was strange and cold against his bare feet. The backs of his eyelids were bright pink, barely shielding him from the insistent light. 

He had expected this full-blown assault on his senses—braced himself for it, even, as well as he could. But as long as he’d lived, he’d never experienced it this badly. 

Alastair did not have it in him to deal with this today. He was going back to bed.

Not even bothering to glance out the window, he drew the curtains viciously. Plunged into dimness, he slunk back under his covers, pulling them up over his head. This was better. It would get hot soon, perhaps, but for now, the blankets acted as a sort of muffler. He curled in on himself beneath them, squeezing his eyes shut. 

There was a knock on his door. 

For a moment, Alastair did not respond, hoping that he’d imagined it, or that whoever it was would give up and go away.

Another knock. “Alastair?” came Cordelia’s voice through the door. “Can I come in?”

Alastair warred briefly with his options. On the one hand, the idea of getting up was about as appealing as the idea of feeding himself live to a sea serpent. On the other hand, the longer he made her wait, the more concerned she’d be when he finally had to face her. It was this thought that dragged him reluctantly back out from his blanket lair.

He unlocked the door and threw it open. “Yes?” he said, flatly.

Cordelia stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. She was dressed, in yesterday’s outfit, and had pinned her hair up carefully. “Good morning,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

Alastair stared at her with his eyebrows raised. “How am I _feeling?”_

“Sorry. Stupid question.” Cordelia shook her head. “Me too,” she confessed softly. “I can barely stand it.”

Alastair stepped out of the way and beckoned her in, shutting the door behind her. Cordelia sat on the edge of his unmade bed. Alastair attempted to stand across from her, but realized quickly that he was too unwell, and lowered himself into the armchair instead. 

“We’re meant to go out,” Cordelia said, like the idea preemptively exhausted her. “To be fitted for more clothing.”

Alastair groaned. “God kill me.”

“I know.” Cordelia closed her eyes. “But Anna is paying for all of it, which is really most kind of her. And it needs to happen—we cannot wear the same things over and over again.”

“Why not?” Alastair asked, petulantly.

Cordelia opened her eyes just to give him a look. “You know it’s the human custom to have variety in one’s wardrobe.”

“It’s a stupid custom,” Alastair shot back.

Cordelia sighed. “I agree,” she said, “but I suppose we wouldn’t understand why it is that way. If we want to blend in, we must follow customs like this one.”

Alastair leaned his head against the chair’s back. “I wish we’d never decided to do this,” he said, quietly.

Cordelia frowned, as though she was going to argue, but then a defeated look overtook it. “So do I,” she admitted. “But if I could go back, I do not think I would choose differently. _Mâmân_ is safe. You are healing.” She paused. “And these people are kind. It could be worse.”

Alastair failed to see how it could be worse, but before he could say so, Cordelia smiled suddenly. “I met Thomas Lightwood last night,” she said.

The night’s events came back to Alastair in a rush. Singing before a room of people. Lucie Herondale and her chatter. Reencountering the human boy of his youth: now decidedly a man, but with the same demeanor, the same gentle hazel eyes.

“Oh?” he said.

Cordelia tilted her head at him. “He’s very nice,” she observed. “And very handsome.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow. “Is he, now?” he drawled. “I thought I spotted you making eyes at Captain James as well last night. Is it just those two, or has the entire group taken your fancy?”

Cordelia glared at him. “I don’t know why I even try,” she said. “I meant for _you,_ Alastair.” She huffed out an annoyed breath. “It would be nice to be able to discuss such matters without you sniping at me, you know.”

Alastair sniffed. “What makes you think there’s anything to discuss?”

Cordelia gave him a wry look. “So you don’t agree that he’s handsome?”

“Who, Thomas?” Alastair thought again of the man in question. It had been most interesting to see him closer, under such different circumstances. Cordelia wasn’t wrong: in fact, handsome didn’t quite cover it. He was objectively handsome, certainly, but the appeal of Thomas Lightwood was greater than that. There was something else going on. Something internal—a sense Alastair had that Thomas had a deep inner life, and that if Alastair were to prod at it, he’d discover there goodness, and intelligence, and even a little darkness which he suspected Thomas kept well-hidden. Alastair could see these things in his every thoughtful gesture, in those arresting hazel eyes.

“I suppose he looks well enough,” Alastair acknowledged, finally. Cordelia rolled her eyes. “But it hardly matters,” he added. “Even if he was like me, which is very much up for debate, I have no interest in becoming involved with another land-dweller.”

Cordelia’s mouth twisted into a frown. “Because you still love Charles?” she asked, with audible hesitation. “Or because you don’t, and do not wish to repeat the past?”

Alastair was not certain he had an answer to this. “A little of both, perhaps,” he said, after a moment. It felt like the closest thing to the truth.

Cordelia nodded her understanding. “I’m sorry,” she replied. “I’ll leave you alone about Thomas, or anyone else.” She shrugged one shoulder, a bit sadly. “I only thought it might be an enjoyable way to pass the time, since we’ll be passing so much of it in misery.”

Alastair raised his eyebrows. “And what, pray tell, is _‘it?’_ What are you suggesting might be enjoyable, Layla?”

Cordelia gave him a withering look, even as her cheeks reddened. “I don’t know, Alastair, courtship? Gossip about courtship? Are these concepts quite foreign to you?”

“Not at all.” Alastair crossed his legs, grinning at her languidly. “If you wish to gossip, let’s talk about James.”

“Let’s not,” Cordelia said, with conviction. She stood, smoothing her skirts. “I must go, anyway. _Mâmân_ and I are being measured first—you will join later, so you can take your time.” She crossed the room and held out a slip of paper to him. “This is the address.”

Alastair took the paper dubiously. “Must I?”

“You must.” Cordelia crossed her arms, looking sympathetic but stern. “When you feel up to it, get some breakfast downstairs. They’re expecting you in about an hour.”

 _When I feel up to it,_ Alastair thought, wryly. A _when_ that would never come. 

Cordelia had moved for the door. “We can do this,” she said, over her shoulder. “We can absolutely do this.”

“Sure we can,” Alastair replied. Cordelia cast him one last remonstrative glance, and then she was gone.

—

Alastair seriously considered ignoring his impending obligations. Surely he wouldn’t harm anyone by spending the day in bed—and it wasn’t as though his reputation mattered much, since he would return to the sea soon anyway. His younger, less mature self likely would have given in to this impulse. But unfortunately for Alastair, he was nearly nineteen and knew quite well that he should be beyond such things. He didn’t mind much if he came across as rude, but he deeply disliked the thought of his family bravely venturing out while he remained behind like a petulant child.

So he dressed himself, resentfully. In the previous night’s haze, he’d at least managed to hang his clothes properly, so it seemed he wasn’t completely useless. Dressed but still barefoot, he ventured into the bathroom.

The floor here was blue-tiled and cold. There was a little window on the left wall, but the sun hadn’t quite caught it, so the light streaming through was not unbearable. The walls were different from those in his room: deep turquoise, which had chipped away in some places to reveal white underneath. The mirror above the sink was rimmed by an intricate silver frame.

Alastair gazed detachedly at his own reflection. It was not often that he got to see it—reflective surfaces were few and far between underwater. Still, he knew his face well enough to tell that at present, he looked exhausted. 

Sighing, he turned on the sink. Carefully avoiding his bandages, he wetted only the tips of his fingers and ran them through his dark hair. Then he ducked his head under the tap, letting the cold water run from his temple down his face, dripping at last off the point of his chin. The sensation of it was calming—so much so that afterwards, once he’d gingerly dried himself, he considered bathing again. But he knew he did not have time. And besides, there was no one around to help him rebandage his hands.

With nothing else left to do, he donned his shoes and coat. Then he sat wearily on the edge of his bed. 

There were so many _steps_ to being a human. Not for the first time, Alastair reflected on how lucky he’d been to be born a merman. It may not feel particularly lucky right now, but he would not have it differently. He did not envy these people, with their cumbersome routines and restrictive customs and lack of everyday access to saltwater. He only envied the comparative ease with which they seemed to move through life. Even at its best, the ocean was never quite safe, never quite calm. 

He sighed, gazing bleakly across at the charred logs in his small fireplace. Cordelia was right: he should eat before attempting to face the day. He stood, bracing himself against the nearest bedpost as his vision threatened to black out. He allowed himself a well-chosen curse, spoken aloud to no-one. And then he headed into the hallway.

He could hear voices conversing somewhere below him as he descended the carpeted steps. He did his level best to ignore them, hoping to slip past unnoticed into the barroom. But as he neared the bottom, something made him pause. He wasn’t quite sure what, but the urge was powerful enough that he lingered, frozen in place.

There were two men standing in the lower hallway, near the entrance to the barroom. He could only see their legs and torsos—he’d have to take one more step down for their faces to become visible. Both wore the blue-and-white uniform of the Navy: crisp and clean, with gold embroidery on the cuffs and down the lapels. They did not appear to have noticed him yet, too intent on their conversation.

“I don’t think we’re in the clear yet,” one of them was saying, in a low voice. “Either way, it makes me nervous that the word is out—”

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” the other cut in, confidently. Alastair started. The voice was oddly familiar. “If it brings people hope to know that there were no attacks yesterday, I see no reason to keep them in the dark.”

Alastair inhaled sharply. _No attacks yesterday?_ What did that mean? Was it a random coincidence, or did it signify something greater?

“But it doesn’t necessarily _mean_ anything,” the first man responded, echoing Alastair’s thoughts. “We could very well lose yet another ship today, and then what? The hope was for nothing. It would dampen everyone’s spirits terribly.”

“George.” There was a smile in the second man’s voice, and also the hint of a reprimand. It was a decidedly odd combination. “Let’s not take this small scrap of good news away from people who need it so sorely, shall we?”

“I’m not,” the first man responded, sounding a little frustrated. “It’s just—they’re giving us credit we don’t deserve, Captain. I am overcome with guilt just hearing them speak of it.”

“Who says we don't deserve it?” Alastair was _certain_ now that this voice was familiar to him. Clearly, it resembled the voice of someone he knew well—but who? “With all the progress we’ve made lately, I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if the beasts were scared off.” He pronounced his words like he was giving a speech, though he spoke to only one person. “I would be too, if I were them.”

“I suppose so,” said the first man after a moment. He sounded like he did not really suppose so. There was a pause. Knowing that he would probably be spotted at any moment, Alastair straightened his waistcoat, braced himself, and finished his descent of the stairs.

The two men glanced sideways at him. One of them was dark-haired and slim-faced, with fretful eyes. The other—well, the other was staring at Alastair in complete, white-faced shock, like he'd walked in covered in blood from head to foot. Or like they were long-lost lovers. Because, in fact, they were.

Alastair staggered back. For a moment, his chest was so tight he could not manage a single word. When he finally got a breath, it came as a small, pained gasp.

 _“Charles?”_ he said.

—

Growing up, Alastair had seen many interesting places, but none had struck him like France had. The year they’d spent there when Alastair was seventeen—in Saint-Malo, a port city on the northern coast of Brittany—was the only time in his memory that he’d had any degree of interest in land and those who dwelled there. Part of this interest was the city itself. Beautiful, with its cobbled streets, flowered terraces, and the ocean always within easy reach; fascinating, for its intimidating outer walls and the genuine privateers roaming within them. The other part of it was Charles.

They’d met on the steps of the Cathedral of St. Vincent, one autumn evening. Alastair could still call to mind a clear image of this evening. He’d been sitting on the steps, reading a book he’d acquired in a shop nearby. He didn’t remember what the book had been, but he remembered how the setting sun had cast Charles in gold as he ascended the steps. How his neatly styled hair had been the color of fire in the odd light. How he had glanced sideways at Alastair as he passed, green eyes warm and curious. 

Alastair had lingered outside the cathedral awhile longer, though it was growing cold, to see if he would come back out. He had, and this time he’d approached Alastair, offering a gloved hand and a charming smile.

So had begun a month of conversations, followed by a month of ever-so-slightly flirtatious conversations. Alastair had not spent so much time on land in his entire life, let alone in a mere two months. It had been somewhat torturous—even then, he’d not been able to bear it for more than a few hours at a time. He’d wanted to tell Charles what he was, so they could meet more often halfway: somewhere safe where the sea met the shore. Eventually, too far gone to care much for the risks, he had.

Charles had taken the revelation with a good deal of confusion, but he’d taken it well enough. If anything, Alastair suspected it had given him the final push he’d needed to pursue their mutual attraction. After all, Alastair had known nobody but Charles in Saint-Malo, which had made it rather unlikely they’d be found out. So Alastair had become a secret in two ways: a secret because he was Charles’s merman, and a secret because he was Charles’s lover.

For a time, this had been a happy arrangement. But it had become apparent, very gradually, that it would not last. Setting aside that one of them would leave sooner or later—Alastair’s family was always moving, and Charles had only planned to live abroad briefly before returning to England—it had grown more and more difficult for them to see each other. Charles had been hesitant to meet in public places; the definition of which had eventually expanded to include his own apartment, on the grounds that he shared the building with several others. But he’d also neglected Alastair’s offers to meet somewhere private on the shore, citing networking engagements that kept him too busy to venture often out to sea.

Even in love as he’d been, Alastair had been able to see that he was far from Charles’s first priority. Maybe he could have tolerated that idea, if he hadn’t been torturing himself daily just to meet Charles on his preferred terrain. But as it was, such misery was not worth it. He’d broken things off between them shortly before his family left France for good.

And now, here Charles was again. _Here,_ of all places. Alastair stood utterly still as Charles made an attempt to save the situation—something about _old friends, what a coincidence, how have you been, Alastair?_ —and tried to make sense of it. Charles was from _London,_ not Alicante. In fact, he was saying something about London right now: claiming, for the benefit of his Navy friend, that he’d met Alastair there. But wait—maybe he wasn’t _from_ London. He’d come from there to France, and he’d been aiming to return there afterwards, but Alastair could faintly remember him saying his _family_ was from somewhere else. Somewhere which could easily be Alicante. 

Now the Navy friend was excusing himself so Charles and Alastair could catch up, and Charles, still a bit pale, was peering hesitantly at Alastair’s frozen face. “Alastair?” he said. Just that: the intimate familiarity of his name on Charles’s lips. How many contexts he’d heard it in before. How different this one was. “Alastair, what on earth are you doing here?”

For the second time in two days, Alastair led a man into his tavern bedroom. 

He felt considerably more off-kilter than he had the last time, and that was saying something. He locked the door behind him with shaking hands and turned, staring at Charles. Charles stared back, arms crossed over his uniform.

“Alastair,” he said, with some concern. “You look very unwell. What’s going on?”

It was so bizarre to see him, so utterly bizarre. He looked almost the same as he had nearly two years ago, but his presence in this room was as strange and foreign as Alastair felt here himself. “I’m fine, Charles,” he said, his own voice coming out odd and tight. “I am rather surprised.”

“As am I!” Charles exclaimed, gesturing helplessly. “What are you doing in Alicante?” His eyes narrowed, almost suspiciously. “What are you doing on _land?”_

Alastair took a short breath. “Can you not guess?”

Charles’s expression cleared. “The situation at sea,” he said, with dawning realization. He paled further. “Dear God. I’m very glad you’re not out there.”

“Touching,” Alastair hissed, “but I’m afraid I once was.” He thrust out his hands for Charles to see. Charles looked at them with wide green eyes.

“What happened?” he asked. He started forward, reaching out as if to touch or clasp them, but Alastair jerked them back.

“I had an encounter,” he said through his teeth, “with one of your nets.”

There was a pause. Charles stared at him. Alastair could not read his expression, but his own blood thrummed with anticipation. There was not any way Charles could hedge his way out of this. He wore the uniform of the British Navy. His friend had called him _Captain._

It was strange, actually, because Alastair couldn’t recall Charles ever having mentioned interest in such a career. Most all his ambitions had been in the realm of politics. Furthermore, their relationship had deteriorated partly because Charles had little interest in the sea. So how had he ended up here?

After a long, tense moment, Charles said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Alastair.” He did sound sorry, but in a polished sort of way: like he was carefully stitching up a political conflict. “That is not the aim of our nets—we would never have wanted something like that to happen.”

Alastair felt almost jittery with fury. “So what is their aim, then?”

Charles tilted his head. “I’m sorry?”

“Your nets.” Alastair spoke deliberately. “Their aim. You claim they have one. What is it?”

A faint crease formed between Charles’s eyebrows. “Catching sea monsters, of course.”

“As I thought.” Alastair nodded jerkily. “Can you explain to me, then, why I saw one used to kill a mermaid?”

Charles frowned. He stepped back, running a hand through his ever-perfect hair, and shook his head. “I cannot,” he said. “That is not their intended use.”

Alastair cocked an eyebrow. “And yet.”

“That’s utterly awful,” Charles said calmly, returning his gaze. “Again, I am very sorry it happened. I don’t know which ship was responsible, but I can assure you that on the whole, we are only aiming to resolve the situation at sea. I would guess that the captain responsible thought the mermaid was a siren.”

Alastair’s hands had begun to shake again. He tucked them behind his back to hide them. “Is that an excuse?” he asked. “She’d done nothing at all to announce herself as a siren. I was _with_ her. She was only minding her own business.” He stared Charles down. _“I was with her,_ Charles,” he said again. “The net nearly caught me as well. If it had, I’d be dead too.” He smiled thinly. “Do you understand now why that isn’t an excuse, or are you rather incapable of empathy?”

Charles looked stunned. “I understand,” he said.

“Good.” Alastair stepped away from the door, gesturing to it. “It was interesting to see you, Charles, but I have things to do.”

Charles blinked. “Wait,” he said, stepping toward Alastair. “How long are you here?”

Alastair raised his eyebrows. “Why should it matter to you?”

Charles stopped, frowning. “I know we broke things off,” he said. Alastair snorted at the use of _we._ “Because we had such difficulty meeting,” Charles continued, unperturbed. “But we _won’t_ have difficulty, not now that you’re here for good.”

Alastair inhaled sharply. “Two things,” he said. “First. I am _not_ here for good. I am getting out of this godforsaken place as soon as I possibly can.” He gave Charles a look. “Second, that we had difficulty meeting was a symptom of a larger problem, not the problem in and of itself.”

“Be that as it may,” Charles said tightly, “you are stuck here for now. I could help you find ways to make the experience more bearable—I do think there are things you might like here.”

“I don’t need your help,” Alastair said, coldly. Charles rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be a child,” he said. “We all must learn to accept help sometimes.” He took a step toward Alastair—Alastair stepped back again, straight into one of the bedposts. He winced at the sharpness of it between his shoulder blades. “I know how much you despise being on land,” Charles added, more gently. “I remember. By the end of today, you’ll be desperate for something to take your mind off things.”

Alastair shrugged stiffly. “Perhaps.”

Charles sighed. He reached out, hesitantly, and touched Alastair’s right cheek. Alastair knew he should shrink back, or do _something,_ but the feeling of Charles’s hand against his skin was achingly familiar. He closed his eyes.

“I’m out at sea all day,” Charles said, softly, “but I’ll be back tonight. I’ll come see you.”

Alastair could not get a full breath. “Goodbye, Charles,” he said. There was a beat of silence, and then the hand dropped from his face. Alastair heard slow footsteps, and then the sound of his bedroom door swinging shut.

Alastair opened his eyes, dismayed to find that they were not entirely dry. He took a long moment to collect himself, still standing against the bedpost. Then he retrieved the slip of paper Cordelia had given him from his desk and went downstairs.

Charles, thankfully, was nowhere to be found. Alastair had lost his appetite for breakfast. He headed straight outside. 

The bright sun hit him like a slap in the face. Grimacing, he turned on his heel and began to walk. The address of the tailor was clutched tightly in his hand, but he found that he could not look at it. Instead, he walked fervently in a random direction, eyes unseeing as he dodged pedestrians and dogs, crates and fruit stalls. When he came to his senses at last, he was looking out at the sea.

He stood before a row of docks. Evidently, these were not the docks used by the Navy, because their massive warships were nowhere to be found. Instead, a somewhat haphazard collection of ships and sailboats called this place home, tied down in a cluttered but pleasing sort of chaos. The largest of them, a rather odd-looking black ship, caught his eye. There was movement atop it.

He recognized the shape of Matthew Fairchild darting about on the ship’s upper level, his head of hair bright under the sun. Matthew Fairchild, who _was,_ in fact, Charles’s younger brother. Alastair cursed himself for not trusting his initial gut feeling. Then something else moved in the corner of his eye, and Alastair found himself staring straight across at Thomas Lightwood.

He stood on the dock, one foot braced on the plank that led to the ship. He wore the same long coat he’d been wearing yesterday—double-breasted brown leather—and a tricorn hat, which made him look like a proper sailor. He was looking up at Matthew, but as Alastair watched, he glanced to the side and their gazes met. 

Thomas froze, an expression of surprise crossing his face. He was too far away to reasonably speak to, but after a moment, Alastair gave him a small wave. Thomas smiled. He had a heart-wrenchingly gentle smile.

“Tom!” Matthew called from atop the ship, his voice loud enough to reach even Alastair.

Thomas cast Alastair one last glance. The wind caught him for a moment, blowing his coat sideways and ruffling the short hair beneath his hat. He tilted his head at Alastair, offering him a wry salute. Then, still smiling faintly, he crossed the plank and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Tennyson for you today. Matching poem excerpts to these chapters is either the most fun thing ever or the absolute bane of my existence, depending on how well it goes.
> 
> I had a whole caveat speech prepared in my head about how I don't hate Charles (I still do not enjoy the trope of villainizing characters who want to stay closeted) but then Cassie did the CoI table read and I decided I actually do hate Charles, so go figure. This fic was going to tear him to shreds anyway, but now I don't have to make a speech about it.


	5. Maelstrom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends! It has been dreadfully long! January threw me like sixteen consecutive curveballs, which made it quite a struggle to find time to write, and I missed you more with each passing day. I am so sorry for the delay. Hopefully the ridiculous length of this chapter is grounds enough for forgiveness.
> 
> p.s. I would maybe give chapter four a reread if you don't remember it well—many of the conversations had there are referenced and/or continued here in ways that might be confusing otherwise. Rest assured that I have seen the perils of a hiatus and hope never to repeat them.
> 
> p.p.s...word of warning that there is a bit of reflection here on manipulative partners and the tolls they take on our self-esteem. If this strikes a chord with you, I would tread lightly. Take care of yourself, I love you.

_In you accumulated wars and flights.  
Birds in song lifted their wings from you._

_You swallowed everything, like distance.  
Like the sea, like time. In you, all was ship-wrecked._

— Pablo Neruda, _The Song of Despair_

Thomas woke with a strong conviction that he’d dreamed. But as he lay in bed, blinking up at the faint strip of morning light cast across his otherwise dim bedroom ceiling, he could not fully grasp the dream. He chased the remnants of it down into the depths of his mind, but it was like diving after something sinking faster than he could swim. He caught a glimpse of it—storm clouds, the sea at sunset, eyes blacker than a moonless sky—and then it slipped away from him entirely.

Pushing his sheets back, Thomas sat up. It was light enough in his room that he wondered if he’d slept late, but a glance at his clock confirmed that in fact, he was slightly ahead of schedule. The sun, ostensibly, was out in full force today: a rarity in Alicante. Thomas spared a moment to be glad that if the Carstairs family must be stuck here, they had at least managed to pick a good time for weather. Then he wondered whether they would agree. Did they get much sun under the sea? Would it prove overwhelming for them? Perhaps, indeed, it would provide Cordelia some relief from her never-ending chill. But he wasn’t as sure about Alastair—

Thomas cut off his own train of thought, frowning at himself in bemusement. How strange, to devote his first waking moments to concern for near strangers! He’d always been prone to abundant sympathy, but this was bordering on excessive. Last night, too, his mind had seemed utterly incapable of staying off the topic of Alastair and his family—especially after he’d parted ways with his friends and been left alone to sort through his own thoughts. He was fairly sure he’d fallen _asleep_ thinking of Alastair’s warning about the hopeless plight of the sea, and now he’d woken hours later with the merman still on his mind. What on earth was that about? He supposed it wasn’t completely ridiculous to be so struck by such an unusual situation, but there’d be a point at which he’d begin to feel rather like a creep.

“Shape up,” Thomas muttered sternly to himself. Only the quiet ticking of the clock answered him.

Thomas sighed, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face. There were certainly other things to think about. He was going back out on the water today, for one, and then they’d know once and for all whether yesterday’s oddness had been a fluke. The thought gave him a sudden rush of nervous adrenaline, and he scrambled out of bed. He drew back his curtains, allowing light to stream into his room with a vengeance. Thomas squinted at his family’s back garden, oversaturated by the aggressive sun. He could not see the sea from here, but looking out, he could _feel_ it. He always could—no matter where he stood in Alicante, he had some idea of where the ocean was in relation to him. He attributed this to his ever-keen sense of direction. After all, his job at sea was more or less the opposite: to be aware at all times of how they might return to shore.

Thomas sped through his morning routine like he was late for something, though he knew that in reality he had loads of time. Splashing water on his face, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror: eyes alight, cheeks faintly flushed. He faltered briefly at the sight, staring at his own reflection in bewilderment. Was he _excited?_ Surely not—when he prodded at the thought of going back out to sea, he found only dread and anxiety.

Given said dread and anxiety, in fact, he should probably be in a worse mood. But for reasons that eluded him, he was not. Instead, he felt more than ready to face the day—spurred on by some unnamable emotion. It wasn’t _excitement,_ precisely, but something akin to it. 

Thomas shook his head at himself, heading back into his room. Odd things were clearly afoot in his brain. Perhaps the fresh sea air would sort them out.

He saw no one in the quiet, sleeping hallways of his house, though somebody had left a book propped open upside down on the parlor table. Thomas saved the spot with its ribbon bookmark and folded it carefully closed. There was an extinguished candle beside it on the table—he could well imagine his mother reading late into the night, awaiting his return. She’d met him at the door when he’d arrived home yesterday. He felt a rush of guilt at the thought. Though he knew from experience that it was not within his power to soothe her fears, he hated to be the cause of so much constant worry. 

Ever-so-slightly deflated, Thomas did not linger any longer. He shrugged his coat on as he walked—snagged a mottled green apple from the kitchen and his hat from the rack in the entryway—and then, at long last, he escaped the dim confines of his childhood home and strode into the friendly glare of England’s fickle sun.

The day was startling in its loveliness. Thomas decided to walk the long way to the docks: the route that would take him along the shore until he reached town. More often than not, he found a reason to justify going this way, even if he was running late or the weather was poor. Today, with plenty of time to spare and not a cloud in the sky, it was the easiest choice in the world. His feet carried him almost unconsciously down the little path that led to the beach.

As he walked, a barrage of scents washed over him: salt, wildflowers, the odd burnt smell of sand roasting under the sun. His shoes sank into the soft shore as he picked his way towards the tumbling waves, hoping to find firmer ground. All around him, the sea roared in welcome.

This beach had seen Thomas through all the highs and lows of his life. It was where he’d come for years to be alone: to think, to compose songs, to process complex emotions. As a child, he’d come here when he felt suffocated. As his health had improved, he’d come here for exercise. He had even come here the day his eldest sister, Barbara, had died—had seated himself on the flat wet sand for hours, letting water and foam rush back and forth over his legs and against his torso until he was soaked to the skin and trembling all over.

It was a safe place, a place he trusted to take care of him. Yet it was also, somehow, a place of excitement and inspiration. As his mother often fondly observed, Thomas was prone to reverence: when he loved a place, or an object, or an activity, he loved it with an almost religious intensity. He took immense pleasure in small, precious things. Moments in his favorite places. Stolen hours spent reading his favorite books. Teatime with Eugenia. Ginger beer. Rare sunny days, like this one. The way the changing light gave the ocean endless new faces to admire. Even something as minor as this rather lackluster apple, because its presence in the kitchen was evidence that whoever had done the shopping this week had remembered that he preferred the bitter green to the sweet red. That alone was a sneaky demonstration of love, and it filled Thomas with gratitude like warmth in his chest.

The day, despite everything, was off to a good start. As he walked, Thomas wondered how Alastair was faring. Did he stand the barest chance of having a pleasant day on land, or was that thoroughly impossible? Thomas hoped he would at least find time to walk along the beach. In Thomas’s opinion, such an exercise was good for anyone, but he thought it’d be especially soothing for somebody who missed the ocean so deeply.

Or would it? Would the proximity only make the longing worse? Thomas mused that he could not even begin to put himself in Alastair’s shoes, simply on the grounds that Alastair cared so much for the place he called home. Thomas loved his family more than anything, but he did make a frequent mission of escaping his house and the many bad memories it contained. What longing he had was for a world that would never be his. 

Thomas crossed slightly up the slope of the shore so he could throw his apple core into the nearest bush of wildflowers. As he did, he realized with a jolt of self-directed exasperation that he’d let his mind drift back to Alastair again. It seemed this was to be his plight. It was his own doing, really—he’d lingered so often on their first meeting in the years since it happened that such thoughts were likely muscle memory at this point. Still, now that Thomas and Alastair were actually acquainted, it felt invasive to wonder so extensively about business that was not his.

Thomas picked up his pace, sighing a little at himself. Ahead of him, the beach thinned into rockier terrain. The town loomed on his left side—he’d barely even noticed it approaching, too intent on the sea and his own train of thought. As he made his way up towards it, the wind blew his coat open, the length of it rippling and catching against his lower thighs. Thomas hopped up onto the edge of the docks, the old wood creaking under his feet. 

It was a sad sight, all these lonely boats tied down here with nowhere to go. Sadder still to see gaps in the familiar chaos: empty spots waiting for ships that would never return. Thomas strode slowly across the docks, gazing at the dark shape of The Shadow Hunter anchored ahead of him. He thought he could make out movement atop it.

As he neared, he saw that he was right: Matthew appeared to be pacing back and forth on the quarter-deck. Thomas checked his pocket watch—after his long, meandering walk, he had arrived right on time. So why was Matthew in a state? Thomas reached the ship and paused with some trepidation, squinting up at his friend with knitted brows. Then, inexplicably, he was seized by an urge to glance to his left.

He did so, and started. There, standing some ways away by the nearest row of brick buildings, was Alastair Carstairs.

He wore the same clothing he’d been wearing yesterday: all dark fabrics set only against the white collar of his shirt. Black suited him, Thomas thought, though it would surely cause discomfort on such a sunny day. Something about the stiffness of his stance told Thomas that he'd caught Alastair not in the midst of a relaxing stroll down to the shore, but rather in a moment of stress. While not terribly surprising, the thought was saddening. But regardless—Alastair was staring directly at him, which meant he needed to _do_ something besides stare back like an utter fool, but before he could decide what that might be, Alastair lifted his hand in a small wave.

Thomas smiled. It was such a simple gesture, but something about it was inordinately pleasing. Perhaps it was the fact that Alastair had acknowledged him first, which was surprising on its own, or perhaps it was even the wave itself: friendly but a bit uncertain, which struck Thomas as unusual for Alastair on two counts. What might be an appropriate response? He could wave back, but it would be dull to copy Alastair, and the last thing he wanted was to appear dull to possibly the most interesting person he’d ever met—

“Tom!” Matthew shouted, startling Thomas nearly out of his skin. He’d forgotten about his friend’s presence—forgotten, indeed, almost the entirety of his surroundings. Matthew was beckoning to him from his perch on the quarter-deck.

Thomas glanced once more over at Alastair. He was still staring across at Thomas, head tilted slightly. Thomas offered him the first gesture that came to mind—which was, bizarrely, a salute—and crossed onto the ship before he could overthink the situation any more than he already had. 

A _salute?_ What was he, a soldier? Somebody needed to slap some sense into him: he was half tempted to ask Matthew to do the honors. So much for not overthinking. So much, indeed, for not thinking of _Alastair._ That would surely be a losing battle, at least for the remainder of this morning—which, while not entirely his fault, was still immensely frustrating.

Thomas looked up in alarm as Matthew bolted down the steps onto the main deck, worried his friend would read the confusing mix of emotions that must be written openly across his face, but he soon saw that his fears were unfounded. Matthew barely even glanced at him, stalking past him to the other end of the deck.

“Matthew?” Thomas stared after him in concern. “Is everything alright?”

Matthew was hatless, his dark gold locks unusually unkempt. He’d been walking as though he had business to address, but now he turned on his heel and started toward Thomas again, and Thomas realized that he might just be moving for movement’s sake. There was an agitated air about him. 

“No,” he replied, shortly. “In fact, everything is not alright. I have news, and not a scrap of it is good.” He stopped, running a ringed hand roughly through his hair. Well, Thomas thought, that explained the sorry shape it was in. “Where’s the other half of us, then?” he asked impatiently, like Thomas might reasonably have James and Christopher hidden inside his coat.

Thomas frowned at him. “I hardly know, do I?” He strode forward, putting both his hands on Matthew’s shoulders. “Matthew, talk to me. What’s going on?”

Matthew met his gaze with stormy green eyes, and then seemed to deflate a little. “Sorry, Tom,” he said. He took a deep breath, shoulders rising with it. “It’s been a horrid morning, and I’ve had nobody whatsoever to speak to about it, which means I’ve had absolute _eons_ to lose my mind.” He gestured to his disheveled appearance. “I mean, look at me. Have you ever seen such a disaster?”

Thomas wasn’t entirely sure whether Matthew meant his hair, his disarrayed clothing, or himself as a person. Knowing Matthew, it could be any of the three. “It’s more than alright, Matthew,” he said, struggling to sound calming. “Would you tell me what happened?”

“Gladly.” Matthew patted one of Thomas’s large hands and stepped out of his grip, backing away a few paces and hugging his arms over his chest. “Good lord, where to begin? Well, firstly, I spoke with my brother last night.”

Thomas crossed his own arms to mirror him. “Oh?”

Matthew nodded. He was bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, still hugging himself. “They didn’t see anything yesterday,” he said. “Not so much as a stray kappa.”

Thomas’s breath caught. “No attacks?”

“No attacks.” Matthew smiled thinly. “So we were right. Something strange is going on.”

The words settled uneasily between them. Thomas could hear the sound of footsteps creaking on the dock below—one of their friends approaching, perhaps—but all his attention was on Matthew.

“What else?” he asked, not fully sure he wanted the answer. 

Matthew was staring in the direction of the plank. “Someone’s coming,” he said, just as Christopher stepped onto the ship.

He stopped short, blinking at Thomas and Matthew. In one hand, he held a toolbox, and in the other, a contraption not unlike the bomb he’d successfully set off days earlier. “What ho,” he said, with a degree of surprise.

“Hello there, Kit,” Matthew replied. “How are we faring this fine morning?”

Christopher looked between them. He seemed well aware that he was missing something. Thomas, taking pity on him, cleared his throat.

“Matthew has news,” he said.

“Tragically,” Matthew agreed. “To catch you up, Kit, there were no attacks yesterday. On anybody, Navy or otherwise. Also, we appear to be missing our captain.”

There was a pause as the three of them took in James’s absence. Christopher’s eyebrows furrowed as he bent to set his things on the deck. “Perhaps he’s late?” he suggested hopefully, straightening again.

“James is never late,” Thomas pointed out. It was true: between Christopher’s absent-mindedness, Matthew’s unstable sleep schedule and Thomas’s penchant for meandering strolls, James was the least likely of them to arrive behind schedule.

“Exactly.” Matthew made a helpless sort of gesture, as though to indicate exhaustion with the universe. “So that’s excellent, we can just add that to the chaos stew now, can’t we?”

Christopher and Thomas exchanged a glance. Prone to dramatics though Matthew tended to be, there was clearly something unusual troubling him today.

“So you spoke to Charles,” Thomas prompted, gently. “No attacks on the Navy. I don’t think any of us are particularly surprised, Matthew. What was it that happened this morning?”

Matthew held up a hand. “We’re not done with Charles,” he said. “I did ask him about the supposed merfolk-killing.”

Thomas started. “You did _what?”_

“Pax, Tom,” Matthew replied, placatingly. “I wasn’t sure how else to investigate, and anyway, it went nowhere. He denied it—”

“But of course he did,” Thomas cut in, incredulous. “Would you expect him to confirm it?”

“Obviously not,” Matthew acknowledged. “That was my thought as well. He was certainly interested in where I had gotten the information from, though I suppose he would be regardless.”

Thomas went cold all over. “You didn’t mention—”

“No. I did not mention Carstairs.” Matthew’s tone was firm. “I know better than to set my brother loose on _anybody,_ let alone someone who’s been in town but a day.” He shuddered. “Can you imagine? Anyway, I wish I could tell you that was the end of the story.” A dark look crossed his face. “But no, for some godforsaken reason I could not let the bloody topic go, so—I made the most unfortunate decision to visit the Navy port this morning.”

“Oh dear,” Christopher said.

“Oh dear, indeed.” Matthew had begun to bounce a little on his feet again. “I’m not certain what I was looking for, exactly, and Charles wasn’t even there yet—I suppose I was planning to speak to Bridgestock or somebody else. But I couldn’t find him, so I went to check the boathouse.” He paused to take a breath. Instead of looking at Thomas or Christopher, Thomas noticed, he was staring at the floor some distance ahead of him with his eyebrows knit. “The first odd thing was that several people tried to stop me as I approached. But, as we all know, it takes more than a few stern warnings to halt me when I’m on a mission—”

“Stern warnings?” Thomas echoed. “Try an army, and best of luck to them at that.”

Matthew smiled ruefully, though it did not reach his eyes. “Anyhow, I had little trouble reaching the boathouse.” He looked up at last, meeting Thomas’s gaze. “Do you remember what I said a day or two ago, about how they’re bringing dead creatures back to shore for analysis?”

Thomas, struck speechless by anticipatory horror, could only nod.

“Well,” Matthew continued. “They’re keeping them in the boathouse, it seems.”

Christopher stared. “Monsters?” he asked. _“Dead_ monsters?”

“Dead serpents,” Matthew said, “and kappas, and Teuthida demons, and even a bloody _kraken._ There could’ve been more, I’m not certain. I was rather caught on the sirens.”

There was a pause. Thomas’s brain struggled to process the information. “Dead sirens,” he repeated.

“How many?” Christopher asked.

“Countless,” Matthew replied. “But how many do you suppose are actually sirens?”

Apparently this was what Thomas’s mind needed to wake up to the situation. The horror hit him full-force now, like a blow to the chest. “We can’t know,” he said, breathlessly.

“No, Tom, we can’t.” Matthew’s eyes blazed. “Nor can the Navy. They aren’t exactly easy to tell apart, merfolk and sirens, are they? Which is why _we_ have a system—don’t attack them until they attack us first.” He gestured fiercely to their chains and cuffs. “I happen to know the Navy does _not_ have such a system. And I can’t imagine sirens are mounting direct attacks on them with any frequency, or we’d be hearing of casualties.” He crossed his arms again. “I’d guess that the majority of these creatures were killed on sight. Which means they could be either.”

“Sink me!” Christopher exclaimed, wide-eyed.

Thomas felt like he might be sick. “Matthew,” he said. “Matthew, that’s—”

“Horrifying?” Matthew supplied.

Thomas thought of Alastair watching a mermaid die. The tremor in his voice as he’d said, _she tried to help me._ The many merfolk who surely lay dead now, rotting in a boathouse on a terrain they did not call home.

“Thomas?” Matthew frowned. “You’re quite pale. Do you need to sit down?”

“I’m fine,” Thomas snapped. He took a deep breath, his chest aching with it. “I need—I want—what can we do about this?”

Matthew threw up his hands. “This,” he said, “is precisely why I have been here for the past hour waiting for you lot to show up. I haven’t the faintest idea what to do. So many levels of trouble there are here, and of course the immediate concern of where and how we will be burying Charles’s body.”

“Oh dear,” Christopher said again.

“I assure you,” Thomas said, “that I have no intention of being an accessory to murder. Are you even certain he knows?”

“He knows,” Matthew replied, darkly. “Some of those bodies had been there a long time. There isn’t so much as a Navy swab that won’t have seen them already.”

Thomas felt another wave of nausea wash over him. He had quite a vivid image of the boathouse formed in his mind, now—he could practically smell it. “What can we do about this?” he repeated, in a pained voice.

Matthew huffed out a breath. “No answer feels quite like the right one, does it? We can’t exactly accuse them of breaking the law. There are no laws in place that protect merfolk.”

“There should be,” Christopher said, with conviction. “We must get a petition going.”

Matthew smiled a little. “A valiant point, Kit, but the Parliament is a sluggish creature, and it will not help our merfolk in the short term, I’m afraid.”

“We’ll tell people,” Thomas said. “We’ll tell everyone.”

“Ah, yes.” Matthew grinned now. “Nothing like good old-fashioned slander, especially when the subjects in question bear such fondness for their public image. That will put some pressure on them, I should think.”

“If anyone believes us,” Christopher pointed out.

“If no one believes us,” Matthew replied, “we shall have no choice but to declare war.”

Thomas and Christopher blinked at him. Matthew gazed back innocently. “You must be joking,” Thomas said.

“I am,” Matthew admitted. “Though I wouldn’t be opposed, just so it’s on the table.”

Thomas frowned. “You wouldn’t be opposed,” he echoed, “to going to _war_ with the _Navy?_ The four of us, against the _entire British Navy?”_

Matthew appeared to be trying to hold back another grin. “Such little faith you have in us, Tom! I believe we could do anything if we set our minds to it.” He gestured widely. “Why stop at the Navy? We could go up against the world! Become proper pirates!”

It was obvious now that he was joking. Still, Thomas’s mood would not be lifted so easily. “Piracy is unethical,” he muttered, petulantly. Matthew cackled.

“Dear Tom, you kill me,” he said, fondly. He opened his mouth as if to say something else, but then his eyes darted to the side. “James!” he cried.

Thomas and Christopher turned with a start. There, indeed, was James, poised just at the edge of the deck and looking confused. “Hello,” he said.

 _“Hello?”_ Matthew echoed incredulously. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? Where the bloody hell have you been?” 

James frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You’re late!” Matthew told him. “Dreadfully so. You’ve missed all sorts of drama.”

James fumbled for his pocket watch. “No, I’m not,” he started to say, and then stared down at the watch with wide eyes.

For a long moment, they all stood waiting for an explanation. When none came, Thomas cleared his throat. “Everything alright, James?”

“I _am_ late,” James said at last, sounding stunned. “But—I don’t understand. I left the house at the same time I always do.” He looked up at them again. “I swear I did.”

Christopher, standing nearest to him, put a hand on his shoulder. “James,” he said, calmly. “How much time exactly did you lose?”

James was beginning to look extremely alarmed. “It’s been half an hour since I left,” he said. “The walk here takes ten minutes. It _should_ take ten minutes.”

Christopher nodded. “And do you remember any of it?”

James frowned again. “I suppose I do,” he said, not very convincingly. Matthew and Thomas exchanged a look.

“It’s your head injury,” Christopher told him. “Almost certainly. It must be worse than we realized.”

Matthew straightened, green eyes heavy with concern. “We should call things off today,” he said. “You _must_ rest, Jamie, or you’ll only delay your recovery further.”

“But I feel _fine,”_ James said impatiently, shrugging Christopher’s hand off. “I understand why one might blame this on my head, but I assure you I’m right as rain. What must I do to prove it? Walk in a straight line? Balance on one foot? Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

“As much as I would like to see you to try to balance on a swaying ship deck,” Matthew responded, “I would far rather see you abed.”

“Math.” James gazed at him imploringly. “I must commune with the sea, and even a day’s break would be trouble. You know it as well as I do.”

There was a long pause. James and Matthew appeared to be having some sort of wordless conversation. At last, Matthew threw his hands up, sighing loudly. “Fine,” he said. “But if so much as one single incident like this should happen again—”

“I’ll take a rest,” James promised. He strode past Thomas and began to climb the steps to the quarter-deck, effectively ending the argument. They all watched him as he stopped by the steering wheel, gazing down at the three of them. “Shall we set off, then?” he called. “You can catch me up on the drama as we sail.”

“Sure thing, Captain,” Matthew called back, wryly. He looked at Thomas and shook his head. “This morning alone has taken years off my lifespan.”

“That’s the spirit,” Thomas responded, with a lightness he did not feel. “We’ve a whole day ahead of us—who knows how many years you’ve yet to lose.”

Matthew snorted. “Careful, now,” he said, raising an eyebrow at Thomas over his shoulder as he made for the anchor. “Don’t give the mighty sea any ideas.”

Thomas looked out at the horizon. The ocean, glittering under the bright sun, appeared perfectly tranquil.

How strange that such a calm exterior should hide such monstrous wrath. But then, Thomas thought, it seemed that Alicante’s friendly structures held monsters aplenty as well. And of course, he realized with dawning horror, Alastair _knew_ this. He’d tried to explain it to Thomas—the disdain and distrust he held for human heroics—and Thomas had met him with defensiveness.

Now, he understood. He wanted, more than anything, to speak to Alastair. He wanted to understand further. How could they tackle this? What could he do to help? How might safety be found, when treachery abounded on either terrain?

Thomas sighed. Many things may be uncertain, but one thing was sure: it was going to be a very, very long day.

—

The day had only just begun, and already it was shaping up to be the longest of Alastair’s life.

He’d found the tailor’s easily enough, once he’d bothered to actually look for it. Cordelia alone had been there, having sent Sona with Anna back to the tavern to rest, and much to Alastair’s dismay, she’d insisted upon staying there with him for moral support. Alastair had stood stiffly as they took his measurements, doing his level best to conceal the lingering, unshakeable distress of his encounter with Charles. If Cordelia’s gradually deepening frown had been any indication, he hadn’t been very successful in this endeavor.

Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Charles was only one of many reasons why Alastair might be distressed this fine morning, which doubtless explained why Cordelia hadn’t questioned him at all. He imagined she’d probably chalked it up to a combination of homesickness and sensory overload, both of which were indeed plaguing him most viciously. When Alastair had told her he wished to return to bed, Cordelia had let him go without protest.

It was not a lie. The day, despite his best efforts, had defeated him. Arriving at last into the dim embrace of his sea-colored room, Alastair barely summoned the will to toe his shoes off and toss his jacket onto the armchair before he crawled back under his disarrayed blankets. He pulled them over his head, as he had before, and shut his eyes.

Now he was consumed by the dark, muffled world. A sorry substitute for the ocean, this was, but a substitute nonetheless. His breaths felt ever-so-slightly strained—possibly because the blankets impeded airflow, although he wasn’t quite sure how human lungs worked. He knew only that he had them, and that they were a great deal more of a hassle than the gills.

As if to prove his point, his chest was growing tighter by the second. Alastair tried to slow his breaths, but it only made him dizzy. Giving up, he opened his eyes and made a small pocket between the blanket and the mattress so the outside air might better reach him. Then, with a deep sigh, he closed his eyes once more.

The day sailed past like a slow-moving ship. Alastair, cocooned in his blanket lair, drifted in and out of fitful bouts of sleep. He’d fall into a world of swirling images and feverish dream sequences, only to emerge with a start, unsure what exactly he’d seen. Always, he seemed to be swimming, shouting after someone, trying to put words to something unnamable. He was back at the tailor’s, but it was his father taking his measurements while Cordelia watched anxiously. He stood before the audience in the barroom, eating a live fish to raucous cheers. He swam desperately for the ocean’s surface, fleeing an unknown threat in the depths below, only to come suddenly upon the dark bottom of a warship. He lingered in the sea caves, trying to sing a song for a hazel-eyed boy who stood waiting, but he could not recall the words. He was in a room he didn’t recognize, and Charles was telling him he’d made a good choice by deciding to become a full-time human. _I’ve decided no such thing,_ Alastair protested. Charles looked mildly confused. _Sure you have,_ he replied, and Alastair woke at last to the sound of someone pounding on his bedroom door.

—

“I must say I’m impressed,” Cordelia said. She was changing Alastair’s bandages and visibly struggling to squash a great deal of concern. As he gazed blearily at her, she looked up and offered him a small, strained smile. “You managed to sleep for the entire day, _dâdâsh._ I don’t think I could do that, even if I was nearly dead from exhaustion!”

Alastair didn’t think that was as much of a compliment as she wanted it to be. It was dark outside his window, and he was about as disoriented as he’d ever been in his life. He managed a grunt in response.

“I spent the day out in town,” Cordelia continued, snipping one of the thicker bandages neatly and wrapping the end around his left wrist to secure it. She was sitting beside him on the edge of his bed, bandages and ointment bottles spread on the mattress around them. “I wanted to get to know the area a bit, and take advantage of the sunshine.”

A flicker of worry cut through the fog of Alastair’s mind. “How’s your temperature?” he asked, hoarsely.

Cordelia shrugged, not meeting his gaze. “Not perfect, I suppose, but it could be worse.”

Such a typical Cordelia response, and he knew it had to be a lie. He frowned, watching her hands as she finished his second set of bandages. He couldn’t see any tremors now, but she wore a pair of fur-lined gloves she must have acquired somewhere in town. He felt a rush of unpleasantness at the thought of her wandering alone, seeking what respite she could from her own version of this unique hell. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t with you,” he whispered. Cordelia looked up at this.

“Don’t be,” she said, softly. “We are all simply trying to survive this, Alastair. That will mean something different for each of us.” She gave his hands a slight, gentle squeeze, and then released them. He settled them carefully in his lap. “Anyway, I wasn’t alone. Lucie met up with me. She’d promised to show me around.”

Alastair felt a surprising rush of gratitude for Lucie Herondale. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Cordelia smiled a more genuine smile. “Someday, when you’re feeling up to it, I can show you some of the things she showed me. There’s a bookstore I think you’d like.”

Alastair did enjoy bookstores. “Thanks, Layla,” he murmured.

It was for the bandages, but it was for many other things as well. Cordelia nudged his shoulder with her own, and then she rose to her feet.

“I’m taking you downstairs,” she said. “I know you must feel awful, but part of that is certainly because you haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

In fact, Alastair hadn’t even had breakfast, though he was not about to tell her that. He must be hungrier than he realized—by now, his body’s many complaints had merged indistinguishably into a general sense that he had one foot in the grave. He shrugged in response.

“Come, _dâdâsh.”_ Cordelia reached for his wrist, tugging him begrudgingly to his feet. “It’s late, and _Mâmân_ and I have already eaten. I delayed waking you for as long as I could, but—” She smiled wryly. “I soon saw that you’d never wake if I did not intervene.”

“You were definitely right about that,” Alastair muttered, wriggling his shoes on while standing. Suddenly conscious that they were headed back into public domain, he made a half-hearted attempt to straighten the rest of his outfit as well. He turned to Cordelia. “How do I look?”

Cordelia stepped closer to him, reaching up to fuss with his hair. He tolerated this for a few seconds before ducking out of reach, and she surveyed him with her head tilted. “Perfectly fine,” she said, at last. “Perhaps not the height of presentability, but one would never guess you’d been abed all day.”

“Well,” Alastair said, moving for the door, “I suppose that’s the best I can hope for, isn’t it?”

“Certainly,” Cordelia replied with audible amusement, following him out into the dark hallway. As they descended the steps together, the sound of a crowd reached them. Alastair felt dread settle heavily in his stomach. He’d forgotten about this business, the nighttime patrons. It must be later than he realized.

As though sensing his unease, Cordelia hooked her arm supportively through his. She held onto him all the way out into the barroom, and Alastair was suddenly very glad for it: he felt weak with exhaustion at the sight of so many people.

He didn’t put up a fight as Cordelia dragged him through the room to an empty table in the far corner. She gripped his shoulder as he sat, leaning down over him. “I’m going to get you something to eat,” she said, speaking into his ear to be heard over the noise. “Do not move.”

That would be an easy request to obey. Alastair glanced around the room as she disappeared into the crowd. He did not spot Anna, but the familiar crew of four sailors was seated some ways away from him. Alastair wondered if Cordelia had seen them too, and if she had, why she hadn’t stopped to greet them. Perhaps she planned to, but she had put Alastair’s needs first. She really was the kindest, best person he knew. 

The little group was surrounded, as they had been before, by various sorts of well-wishers. Matthew appeared to be in enthusiastic conversation with a pretty red-haired woman, while James was speaking calmly with an older gentleman who had a worried air about him. Christopher was staring into space, eyebrows drawn together pensively, and Thomas was staring at Alastair.

He didn’t jump this time, when Alastair caught him. He didn’t look away, either. There was a strange heaviness in his thoughtful hazel eyes, but he smiled at Alastair. It was a slow smile, lacking his usual brightness, and Alastair had the distinct sense that Thomas had summoned it with some effort. For him. He didn’t know what to do with that.

Indeed, there wasn’t much _to_ do besides return the steady look. If Alastair had been a bit more awake, he might’ve had the presence of mind for some other reaction—it wasn’t often that he tolerated such blatant scrutiny of his person, and surely Thomas’s sustained staring was worthy of a responding glare at the very least—but he found that he didn’t mind as much as perhaps he should. The feeling of holding Thomas’s gaze across a distance was becoming oddly familiar.

“Alastair,” a voice said.

Alastair started. The voice was quiet, and not all that close to him, but it was so familiar and surprising that it cut through the noise of the crowd. He turned sharply to see Charles standing some ways away along the nearest wall, poised with one hand on the knob of a side door. As Alastair watched, frozen, Charles cast a quick glance around, gave Alastair a meaningful look, and disappeared through it.

Alastair sat still for another moment. His breath felt stuck in his chest. He didn’t want to speak with Charles, but he couldn’t very well ignore him—not, at any rate, if he wanted to be left alone once and for all. Gritting his teeth, he rose unsteadily to his feet and made to follow.

He’d never noticed this door before. It was inconspicuous, nearly the same color as the wall it sat in. The crowd, as he maneuvered through it, filled his ears with ceaseless noise, but he could still, somehow, hear the roaring of his own pulse. He’d reached the door. He eased it open, cold air seeping through the crack into the warm barroom, and slipped through into the quiet night.

The door, in shutting behind him, cut off the tavern’s cacophony. He was in an alleyway—empty apart from Charles, who stood nearby, glowing softly orange under the lantern light. It was very cold. Alastair hadn’t realized how warm he’d been before, first beneath his covers and then in a room full of people, but now he felt he’d taken it for granted. He physically restrained a shiver, crossing his arms over his chest.

Charles’s eyes cut sideways to him. “Where’s your jacket?”

Alastair had never bothered to retrieve it from the armchair he’d tossed it onto. He jerked his head in the direction of the tavern. “Inside.”

Charles frowned, and for a bizarre moment Alastair wondered if he was going to offer his own—bizarre because Alastair knew very well that Charles shied away from such visible, casual demonstrations of affection. But Charles only said, “You know, don’t you, that removing one’s jacket is proper only in private settings?”

Alastair bristled. “Of course I do,” he replied, though he hadn’t actually known this. Human decorum rules were impossible to keep straight—and unendingly arbitrary, it seemed. Charles sighed.

“I am only trying to help, Alastair,” he said, with the long-suffering, superior calmness of someone reveling in their own patience. “It’s important for you to blend in, is it not? Dressing inappropriately hardly helps with that.”

It was irrationally irksome to be so instructed. Being human himself, Charles probably _was_ better equipped to dictate how Alastair might act like one, but he could certainly stand to be less patronizing about it. He didn’t, after all, know the first thing about being a merman stuck on land—a subject on which Alastair happened to be an expert.

And of course, Alastair could not ignore the irony in the situation: Charles, more than a year after their failed relationship, once again advising him on how best to blend in with the masses and conceal his true nature. It struck him, suddenly, that Charles would probably do well in Alastair’s current predicament—given his evident aptitude for self-annihilation. But this was a cruel, unfair thought, and Alastair shut it down immediately. 

He was exhausted already. It was no longer clear to him why he’d come outside in the first place. “Why are you here, Charles?” he asked, tiredly.

Charles looked confused. “I said I would come.”

Indeed, he had. Alastair had forgotten. “I thought I made it clear we weren’t—we aren’t—” He gestured helplessly between them. “That I didn’t want to see you,” he finished, with far less conviction than he’d have liked. 

Charles’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t say not to come,” he said. His tone was accusatory, as though it was Alastair’s fault that he’d somehow managed to misinterpret their entire interaction this morning.

Alastair exhaled slowly through his nose. “I thought I made it clear,” he said again.

There was a pause. Charles’s mouth twitched in an angry sort of way. “I don’t understand,” he said at last, “why you are so steadfast on this topic. It seems rather silly to push me away over a problem we now have a solution for.”

Alastair gave him a steady look. “I think,” he said, “that it is up to me to decide whether my own wants are silly, Charles.”

Charles sighed. “Your _wants?”_ he echoed, exasperatedly. “And what is it that you want?”

 _What is it that you want?_ The gentle lantern light softened Charles, unfairly. In the otherwise dark alleyway, he was all Alastair could see. Alastair had never loved anybody like he had loved Charles. That love was still somewhere within him. If he reached for it, he might find it at his fingertips: drawn out by Charles’s physical closeness, by the lovely, devilish light. 

Carefully, Alastair prodded at it. His body answered him with a deep ache, like somebody had reached into him and torn out all the parts that mattered. He withdrew.

“I want you to leave me alone,” he said, at last. His voice was quiet, but firm.

Charles froze. He eyed Alastair like he was trying to asses how serious he was. Then he frowned, as though he did not like what he saw. _“Why?”_

 _Why indeed, Charles._ Alastair wondered how to put it into words. _Because you have to ask. Because it hurts me to be around you._ He cleared his throat. “Because,” he said aloud, “no matter our present circumstances, I have seen who you are and where you place me in the hierarchy of your life. And I will not return to that, no matter how convenient you now find me.”

Charles’s face was grim. “You are a fool,” he replied, coldly, “if you think any human would interrupt their life to accommodate you.”

Alastair sucked in a breath. Fury flared up like fire in his chest, painful in its intensity. “I suppose I am a fool, then,” he said, breathlessly. “A fool who, I might remind you, interrupted my _own_ life nearly every day for your sake. Do you think I _enjoyed_ coming ashore, Charles? Do you suppose I spent a second of it free from the torture of being on land? But I did it for you, and more’s the pity. Because I _loved_ you.” He was shaking now. _“All_ I wanted was the barest hint of effort on your part. The occasional seaside visit. One bloody _ounce_ of interest in the life I’ve lived since the day I was born.”

His voice broke, and he stopped. He had not meant to say any of that, and knew he would probably regret the outburst—but right now, it felt cathartic to have the words hanging between them. He swallowed. His cheeks were hot, though the air had only grown colder, and he was still trembling a little. “I was not asking for much, Charles,” he added, into the silence.

Charles’s jaw worked. “I lead a busy life,” he said, shortly. “I had unavoidable business in town—I thought you understood that.” His green eyes glittered as they met Alastair’s. “I know you experience discomfort on land. We’ve discussed it many times. But I suppose I did not think it was an unreasonable sacrifice.” He paused, lifting an eyebrow. “I see now that I was wrong.”

Alastair blinked at him. “Not _unreasonable,”_ he echoed, wonderingly. It was astounding, really, how neatly Charles had bypassed Alastair’s main point and turned the scrutiny on _Alastair’s_ commitment to their relationship. Never mind that it was a sacrifice he’d made, again and again; that he now expressed regret apparently made him as much to blame as Charles, who’d never sacrificed a thing.

“Well, I thought not,” Charles said. “It wasn’t as though you were neglecting important commitments at sea when you came ashore, was it?”

 _No,_ Alastair thought, wryly, _nothing important. Only my life._

“You know, Charles,” he said, “I think you might have a skewed conception of importance, on the whole.”

Charles’s eyebrows were nearly at his hairline now. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, incredulously.

The door to the barroom burst open. Alastair and Charles leapt apart, though they hadn’t been standing close to begin with, as Matthew Fairchild spilled out in a rush of warmth and sound. Without so much as glancing at either of them, he made for the nearest rubbish bin and vomited into it.

This seemed to snap Charles out of his momentary stunned silence. “Oh, for the love of God,” he said, stalking to the door to shut it again. He gazed distastefully across at his younger brother as Matthew straightened, wobbling on his feet, and started when he saw Charles.

“Charlie!” he exclaimed. He made for Charles as though to embrace him, but stopped just short, an odd look crossing his face. “What are you doing here?”

Charles sighed. “This is a tavern,” he said, dryly. “I hardly think it takes any great effort to guess why I have come.”

Matthew swayed into Charles’s space, squinting at him suspiciously. The hand that had reached for him now jabbed a pointed finger at his chest. “Ah, but—” He drew in a slow breath, as though sniffing for alcohol. “I don’t believe you _are_ here for the common reason.”

Charles pushed him away again, looking exasperated. “I’m surprised you can smell anything over yourself. Have you _bathed_ in rum?”

“I have not,” Matthew said, “but now I know what I’m doing this weekend.” He grinned languidly, and then blinked at Charles and froze. The grin slipped off his face abruptly.

“Matthew?” Charles eyed him warily. “What is it?”

Matthew’s expression had darkened to an almost startling extent. He simply stared at Charles for a long moment, as though trying to discern something through his drunken haze. At last he said, “Do you know what I did this morning, Charles?”

His syllables were surprisingly clear, as though he had shaped them carefully. Charles frowned. “Of course not,” he said, impatiently.

Matthew leaned towards him again, leering a little. “I went to the Navy docks.”

Charles stilled. His eyes darted sideways to Alastair. Matthew, following his gaze, jerked in surprise. “Carstairs?”

Alastair cocked an eyebrow, looking between Charles and Matthew. His arms were still crossed stiffly over his chest. “Fairchild,” he acknowledged, shortly.

Charles frowned deeper. “You know each other?”

“But of course!” Matthew said. “Alastair Carstairs, resident songbird and cow-savior extraordinaire.” Without giving anyone time to react to such a horrifying combination of words, he added, _“You_ two know each other?”

Alastair and Charles exchanged a look. “From London,” Alastair said, hoping this would suffice. Matthew’s eyebrows rose.

“How enlightening,” he said, as though Alastair had not just offered him the vaguest possible response. If Charles were to frown any deeper, Alastair thought, his face would get stuck like that.

“Is it?” Alastair asked delicately.

“Well,” Matthew replied, “it certainly explains your distaste for the British Navy.” He gave Charles another odd look. “You’ve seen the worst of it already.”

Now it was Alastair’s turn to frown. “Who told you I don’t like the Navy?”

“Thomas did,” Matthew said, and then looked briefly worried. “Don’t be angry with him. We weren’t gossiping.”

“It sounds very much as if you were,” Alastair observed, trying to quell a prickle of panic. There were only so many contexts in which his feelings about the Navy might have come up. He didn't think Thomas would have said anything that might arouse suspicion—but then, he supposed he didn’t know Thomas very well after all.

“We might’ve gossiped a little,” Matthew conceded. “But it was perfectly appropriate gossip, I assure you.”

Alastair rolled his eyes. “Oh, well in that case.”

“Matthew,” Charles said tightly, “have you not noticed you’re interrupting?”

“He isn’t,” Alastair shot back immediately, before Matthew could reply. He looked to Matthew. “You aren’t. I was just going to excuse myself, actually.”

“You see, Charlie,” Matthew said, a tad sharply, “you will not escape me that easily.” He jabbed his finger into Charles’s chest again. “Not tonight.”

The brothers regarded each other for a long, tense moment. Charles wore the kind of murderous glare unique to siblings at odds, but Matthew was seething his own sort of darkness. There was a visible edge to him, beneath his drunken cheer, that struck Alastair as potentially dangerous. He wondered if Charles noticed.

“Honestly, Matthew,” Charles said, at last. “This is outrageous behavior, even for you. Do you need me to escort you home?”

Matthew leaned in closer to him. “I need you,” he said, so quietly Alastair almost couldn’t hear him, “to answer for what I saw at your boathouse this morning.”

There was a pause. Charles went pale, though his glare did not shift. “It isn’t _my_ boathouse,” he said, through his teeth. “You might recall that I do not, in fact, _own_ the Navy, nor have any say in what they—”

“Save it, Captain,” Matthew hissed. “I know that quite well, just as I know how comfortably you sit in Bridgestock’s pocket.”

Charles cut another glance at Alastair. “Matthew—”

“Don’t tell me you tried to stop it,” Matthew said. “Or do, but I won’t believe you.” He gave Charles a searching look, green eyes narrowed. “I have long thought,” he said, “that your willingness to mold yourself for your ambitions would bring you trouble.” He sucked in a slow breath. “But I never thought it’d drive you so low as this.”

Charles threw up his hands. “Enough of the melodrama, Matthew, for Christ’s sake.” He scowled. “I don’t see what right _you_ have to be on a high horse. You and your friends are hunters too, are you not?”

“Certainly,” Matthew agreed. “But we hunt with the knowledge that there are _people_ living in the sea. I don’t know about you, but I hold that _killing_ people is to be avoided whenever possible.” He looked to Alastair for help. “Is that an outrageous idea? Murder is bad? Can we not agree on this?”

Alastair felt distant from his own body, like he was watching the conversation happen from above. “What is he talking about, Charles?”

“Nothing of importance,” Charles said firmly. He stared at Matthew in a challenging sort of way, as though daring him to contradict the response. Alastair barely knew Matthew, but he knew enough to suspect that this would have the opposite of its intended effect.

He was right. Matthew, looking rather challenging himself, tilted his head wryly. “Oh, sure,” he replied. “Nothing of importance, if all those corpses I saw can be called sirens with any degree of confidence. But they can’t, can they?”

Alastair’s breath caught. “Corpses?” he echoed.

 _“Matthew,”_ Charles said, warningly. 

Matthew smiled thinly. “If you did not wish anyone to know, Charles, you might’ve done something about it sooner.” He glanced sideways at Alastair. “Corpses, of the half-human, half-fish variety. Made that way by the Navy and left to rot at their docks.”

“Sirens,” Charles bit back. He had gone a curious shade of gray.

“But how do you know that?” Matthew raised an eyebrow. “Did you ask them before skewering them alive?”

Alastair’s brain felt sluggish, like he was running on foreign legs after thoughts that raced somewhere ahead of him. There would be no catching them, not if the argument continued at this pace.

“You see the problem here as well as I do,” Matthew added, pointedly. “If you did not, you would have nothing whatsoever to hide.”

A single thought pierced through the confusion like a glowing spear. The thought was this: Alastair knew of at least one corpse who hadn’t been asked. He opened his mouth to say so. What came out instead was, “You said you didn’t know.”

It was directed at Charles.

There was a long pause. Charles, rather than looking at Matthew or Alastair, glared across at the rubbish bin as though it had personally offended him. At last he said, in a strained voice, “This is a complicated matter.”

 _“Bollocks,”_ Matthew replied instantly. Alastair’s mind was beginning to reemerge from the fog it had shrouded itself in. He grasped at the memory of his conversation with Charles this morning. It was difficult to find details among the dull pangs of emotion it produced, but he could recall how Charles had dodged his accusations with careful, polished apologies. Had he truly lied so easily? Was Alastair truly _surprised_ to learn that he had lied so easily?

He was not. In fact, it was becoming clearer by the second that despite his best efforts at growth, despite the new time and space between them, he’d managed to fall yet again for Charles’s particular brand of manipulation. How many times had he let Charles dodge like this? How often, even since the beginning, had Charles skillfully sidestepped Alastair’s wants, needs, feelings? Always the careful words, always the reassurances. _We are only aiming to resolve the situation at sea. Everything I do, I do for you._

Alastair had thought he’d come further than this. He was sick with anger, sickened by how small the realization made him feel. Two years ago, he’d have blamed this smallness on himself. Now, at least, he knew better.

“You said you didn’t know,” he repeated, in a voice so cold that Charles and Matthew both turned to stare at him.

Matthew’s eyebrows were sky-high. Charles, on the other hand, wore an oddly open expression, as though Alastair had momentarily startled his defenses away. “What was I meant to say?” he asked, quietly. “There is no easy answer to this, not when monsters and merfolk wear the same faces. We cannot waste time—the stakes are too high.” He looked at Alastair beseechingly. “People are _dying,_ Alastair.”

Alastair thought of a hand closing around his wrist, coral scales and the flash of a trident, a spearhead protruding from a new friend’s chest. Blood polluting saltwater.

“Yes,” he agreed, holding Charles’s gaze. “They are.”

Matthew released a slow breath. His green eyes were narrowed as they darted between Charles and Alastair, but there was a hint of satisfaction in the crooked tilt of his mouth. “On that pertinent note,” he said lightly, “I have a request for you, dear brother.”

Charles blinked at Matthew as though he’d forgotten he was there. “I beg your pardon?”

Matthew regarded him steadily. “Inform Bridgestock that it is in his best interests to develop a merfolk-friendly hunting technique… _imminently._ If he does not, we will tell everyone with ears what you lot have been up to.”

Charles paled, even as his expression hardened once more. “No one will believe you.”

Matthew quirked an eyebrow at him. “We shall see about that,” he retorted, swaying a little as he leaned away from Charles. Alastair was almost surprised—it had been easy to forget his drunken state for a moment or two there. “In the meantime,” Matthew added, steadying himself with a hand on Charles’s shoulder, “I am not speaking to you.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “You are speaking to me,” he pointed out, “as we speak.”

“So to speak!” Matthew looked delighted. He patted Charles merrily on the shoulder. “Now go away.”

Charles, scowling, brushed Matthew’s hand off as if it were a stray bit of dust. “You have no right,” he hissed. “I might remind you that _you’re_ the one not wanted here. Why don’t you run along, now? Don’t you have a reputation to ruin?”

“Done and done,” Matthew fired back, grinning sharply. “Where have you been?”

“Charles,” Alastair interjected quietly. The brothers paused their bickering to look at him again. He drew in a breath. “Please go.”

He was nearly ashamed of how tired his voice sounded, but there was nothing for it—it was like pleading for a mercy killing, for the final blow that would end the beating at long last. Charles, too, looked as if he felt this blow.

“Alastair,” he started, a tad desperately. “Can’t we—”

“No.” Now he sounded firmer, and he was glad for it. “I do not wish to speak with you any longer.”

Matthew gestured meaningfully. “You heard the man.”

“Alastair—” Charles made as if to start toward him, but Matthew swiftly cut him off. Before Alastair even realized what was happening, there was an arm slung around his shoulders and the syrupy scent of rum in his nose. He cringed back, startled, but Matthew’s warm grip did not loosen. 

“Goodbye, Charlie,” he said, dragging Alastair with him towards the side door. “Carstairs and I have a pressing obligation to discuss your unflattering waistcoat choice at length, which consequently means that _you_ are now the one interrupting. You’ll have to excuse us.”

Alastair caught a glimpse of Charles’s face as the door swung open to admit them—taken aback, angry, lit by the amber glow of the barroom, still with that palpable tinge of hurt—and then the door slammed shut and he was lost to the alleyway they’d left him in.

The barroom roared like a menacing creature. There were people everywhere, all making their own sort of noise, and Alastair spared a moment to observe that he now stood in a pack of reverse-sirens: humans, in all their ugliness, singing a terrible song that compelled one to get as far away from them as remotely possible. Matthew was saying something into his ear, something about Charles, but his breath smelled of alcohol and it was difficult to focus on any of his words. Grateful as Alastair was for his intervention, he was growing nauseous on the scent of his father. He needed to get away, and he needed to do it soon.

He spotted Cordelia’s bright head of hair ahead of them. Dread gripped him viciously at the thought of the dismal news of which he must now be the bearer. But surely this was not the time, not among all these humans—

Cordelia began to turn, scanning the room as though looking for him. Alastair, in a moment of panic, ducked out of Matthew’s grip.

“I feel faint,” he said shortly. “I’m going to lie down.”

He wasn’t even sure Matthew heard him—his voice had been breathless against the room’s cacophony—but before the other boy could reply, Alastair darted off through the crowd and disappeared into the dim hallway beyond.

—

It was really none of Thomas’s business why Alastair had left the tavern to speak with Charles Fairchild.

It was equally none of his business why they’d been out there such a long time. Just as, in fact, _no_ part of Alastair’s private life was _any_ of his business. But then, as Thomas had observed this morning with great frustration, he seemed to be rather incapable of leaving off things that were none of his business. In fact, such things had a habit of occupying a downright shameful portion of his brain.

Tonight’s problem was made only marginally less shameful by the fact that Thomas had, at least, an indisputable reason to worry. Matthew had seemed certain that Charles knew of—and perhaps was even complicit in—the horrors he’d found at the Navy docks. Surely, though, there wouldn’t be a problem as long as Charles didn’t also happen to know that Alastair was a merman. But then, how did Charles know Alastair in the first place?

And so the cycle of questions would restart itself. Thomas barely paid any mind to his friends’ conversation, caught up in his own confusion and unease, until Cordelia appeared before them.

Thomas sat up straight, nearly knocking over his glass. “Miss Carstairs!”

James, who’d been speaking with Christopher, started so violently that he _did_ upend his glass. Thomas caught it swiftly before it could drench anyone, righting it on the table. Christopher looked between them like they'd both lost their wits.

“Good evening,” Cordelia said. She smiled at them, but her dark eyes were worried. Her hands—now gloved, Thomas noticed with relief on her behalf—fidgeted with each other, her fingers lacing and unlacing. “How did the sea treat you today?”

“Never mind that,” James said instantly, startling Thomas. He turned to frown at his friend, but saw from the concern in his golden eyes that he had not intended to be rude. “Something’s troubling you.”

Now it was Cordelia’s turn to look startled. “Oh,” she said, softly. “I—yes. I don’t suppose you’ve seen my brother? I left him over there—” She gestured to the table Alastair had been sitting at. “And…he seems to have disappeared.”

The lightness of her tone poorly concealed a good deal of anxiety, which made Thomas feel both validated and even more anxious himself. He opened his mouth to tell Cordelia what he’d seen, watching her side profile as she scanned the room, but was cut off abruptly by Matthew lurching into view.

 _“Bonsoir, mes amis,”_ he crowed. “I have told off my horrid brother for good, you’ll be glad to know.” Noticing Cordelia standing beside him, he started. _“Et Mademoiselle Carstairs! Ça va?”_ Before anyone could respond or even react, he pointed a finger at her. “And _your_ brother was there too. But he isn’t anymore. Here, I mean.” He cast a confused glance around, finger still poised in mid-air. “He went somewhere.”

Cordelia blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Matthew, what on earth?” James looked baffled. “What happened? Where did you see Alastair?”

“In the alley out there.” Matthew gestured vaguely in the direction of the door Thomas had seen Alastair disappear through. “In conversation with my brother, which I took the liberty of rescuing him from.” He turned to Cordelia. “It is often,” he explained in a conspiratorial stage-whisper, “that I have to rescue people from my brother. I am quite skilled at it.”

Cordelia seemed like she did not know what to do with this information. Thomas couldn’t blame her. “That’s odd,” she said, slowly. “What would your brother want with mine?”

Matthew shrugged. “I’ve no idea.” He paused, arching an eyebrow. “Unless your brother occupies some office of influence I’m not aware of?”

Cordelia shook her head mutely. Matthew shrugged again. “Much of Charles’s behavior is mysterious to me,” he said. “And, mind you, I don’t mean mysterious in a good way—like a beautiful stranger, or half the things that come out of Kit’s mouth.” A dark look passed across his face. “No, I mean mysterious like like an ocean of monsters that could attack you, but doesn’t.”

There was a grim silence at this. Thomas looked to Cordelia for a response, but Cordelia had gone quite pale. She stood completely frozen for a long moment, arms wrapped tightly around her waist. Thomas watched her lips move soundlessly around the words _Charles Fairchild._

“Miss Carstairs?” he prompted, hesitantly.

Cordelia sucked in a breath, her dark eyes refocusing on Matthew. “Where is Alastair now?” she asked, the words coming out in a rush. “Still outside?”

Matthew frowned. “No, he came in with me, but I’m not certain where he went after that.”

Thomas stood. “We could help you look,” he started to say—but Cordelia was already gone.

—

By the time Cordelia found him, Alastair’d already had space aplenty to consider the implications of what he’d learned. The word _corpses_ had his mind in a vicious grip, like a serpent wrapped around its unfortunate prey. Pacing back and forth in his room, he’d tried to rationalize away his rising panic. 

He’d known this—he’d _known_ this. He’d _seen_ a mermaid die with his own eyes. By all rights, he shouldn’t be so shaken by this information.

But he hadn’t necessarily known how intentional the murder had been. There was no doubt now that it had been deliberate.

So the danger to merfolk was coming from both sea and shore at once—and would continue to, in all likelihood, despite Matthew’s threat. In fact, it was quite possible that more merfolk had died at the hands of humans than in the teeth of monsters. There was no winning here. Absolutely no one on their side. Nowhere to swim and nowhere to run.

Or was there?

The knock on his door came just as Alastair had begun to formulate a plan. “Come in,” he called, without ceasing his pacing. The door opened to reveal Cordelia. She stepped into the room, shut the door, and stood there staring at him. 

Alastair remembered with a start that he’d been meant to wait for dinner—that she’d gone to fetch it for him, in fact, and he’d shown his gratitude by leaving her alone in the crowded barroom. He stopped in his tracks, horrified. “Oh, Layla, I’m sorry—”

“No.” Cordelia shook her head. Her expression was most odd: she was looking at him rather like he was a wounded creature she was hesitant to approach. “Don’t apologize, _dâdâsh.”_

Alastair frowned at her. “What is it?” Cordelia seemed to struggle with her words for a moment. At last, her mouth hardened in a determined sort of way. Alastair felt a jolt of wariness. “Layla.”

Cordelia held his gaze. “Charles is here,” she said.

It was not a question. Alastair did not know where she had gotten this information, but it hardly mattered. His fervent fixation on the plight of Alicante’s merfolk had driven Charles to the back of his mind, but now the whole thing washed over him again like a tidal wave. He tried not to let it show on his face.

“He is.” He couldn’t be casual, but he could keep his tone even. “I did not know he lived in Alicante. I was under the impression he was based in London, but he must have returned to his family for some reason or other.”

He winced internally: he sounded like he was delivering a status report, not conversing with his little sister. Cordelia had begun to chew on the inside of her cheek. “It didn’t go well?”

Alastair shrugged. “I told him off.” He hesitated. “He didn’t make it easy.”

Cordelia looked alarmed. “What do you mean?”

He wanted to tell her everything that had transpired, but he knew it was best to keep such details to himself. She’d only worry—and besides, he hated the idea of making her see his weakness, especially when they’d both already been driven so low. He shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter. I told him off.”

Cordelia crossed her arms. “Will he listen?”

“I believe so.” And he did, truly. It would take unusual bravery for Charles to approach Alastair again, given everything that had now come to light.

Cordelia’s eyes were narrowed. “And you’ll tell me if he doesn’t?”

Alastair sighed. “Sure, Layla.”

“No.” She gave him a stern look, the same look she used to give him when they were very small and she was trying to out-stubborn him about some matter or other. “You have to promise.”

“Good lord.” Alastair rolled his eyes. “Fine, I promise. Are you happy?”

“Not at all,” Cordelia said instantly, and it was such a pertinent response that it startled a snort out of him. Cordelia smiled in a hesitant way that did not reach her eyes. “You know,” she added, “I was right about something.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”

“This morning, I told you that our situation could be worse.” She paused. “Well, I was right. It is even worse than we thought.”

She was speaking of Charles, but the words were more to the point than she realized. “Layla,” Alastair said tiredly, “you have no idea.”

And so he told Cordelia what he’d learned from Matthew. Cordelia sank down on the edge of his bed as he talked, her brown skin growing ashen in the weak candlelight. When he was finished, she put her face in her hands. Alastair approached her slowly, placing his own hand on her shoulder.

“It is very bleak, I know,” he said. Despite his best efforts, his voice shook a little. “But I’ve been thinking, Layla, and I have an idea. I can’t believe we haven’t thought of it before—perhaps because it seemed like too large an undertaking—but we’ve run out of options, and I think we should give it a good look.”

Cordelia lowered her hands, peering at up at him. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “What is it?”

Instinctively, Alastair wrapped one arm around her shoulders and pulled her sideways against him. Cordelia buried her face in his waistcoat, drawing in an unsteady breath. He could feel her shaking. The nauseous sensation of his own fear and anger threatened to overwhelm him—but there was determination, still, somewhere beneath it.

“Let’s go to the east coast,” he said, to the top of Cordelia’s head. “To London—or better yet, somewhere closer. If we can find a way to travel over land, we can reenter the water where we know it’s safe.” He sighed. “Let's leave this horrid place, Layla. Let’s go somewhere utterly different and never speak of any of this again.”

Cordelia did not respond for a long moment. She was still leaning into his waistcoat, and he could hear her heavy breathing. At last, she gave a little sob. “Oh, Alastair,” she said. “We can’t.”

Alastair stiffened. “Why not?”

Cordelia drew back from him. There were faint tear tracks on her cheeks. As he watched with growing dread, she wiped one away angrily. “I was thinking that, too,” she said. “I was going to speak to you both about it today, but then—” She paused, closing her eyes. “Alastair, _Mâmân_ is not well.”

Alastair blinked. “What do you mean?”

Cordelia sniffed. “She fainted at the tailor’s this morning,” she said. “That’s why Anna took her home before you arrived. She hasn’t left bed since.” She opened her eyes to meet his gaze again. “I don’t believe she will until the baby is born.”

There was a pause. Alastair felt like he might be sick. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Cordelia straightened, his arm falling from her shoulders. “I was going to,” she said, “but you were so distressed already, and I didn’t want to worry you—”

“Didn’t want to _worry_ me?” Alastair echoed incredulously. “And what purpose did it serve to keep it from me? I was going to find out eventually.”

“I know,” Cordelia said, softly. “I only thought—”

“Thought what?” Alastair scoffed. “You weren’t thinking, clearly.”

Cordelia flinched like he’d struck her. Then she stood abruptly so that they were face-to-face, her dark eyes blazing. “I hardly think you have cause,” she said, in a quietly furious voice, “to scold me for keeping secrets, Alastair.”

Alastair sighed. “Cordelia—”

“How often have you hid similar worries from me? How often have I been the one left in the dark?”

Alastair gave her a look. “That was different.”

“Was it?” She arched an eyebrow. “Am I not allowed to protect you as you’ve protected me, _dâdâsh?”_

Alastair shook his head, turning away from her. “You needn’t protect me.”

He’d meant to snap, but the words came out tired-sounding and noncommittal. He could feel Cordelia looking at him, but he did not meet her eyes. “Tell me everything from now on,” he added, into the silence. “I want to know.”

Cordelia said nothing—whether because she was still angry with him or because she simply could not bring herself to reply, he wasn’t sure.

 _Mâmân is not well._ The knowledge was sinking its teeth in now. His worry for Sona compounded with the realization that there truly _was_ nowhere to go, and he felt hopelessly, cruelly trapped. Trapped in this room, in this city, in this unfamiliar body, in a life that seemed destined to spiral further and further out of his control. His breathing had grown oddly shallow, as though someone was squeezing his chest just enough to cause discomfort. The wood floor seemed to shrink away from him before his eyes. He heard Cordelia say his name, but she was muffled, as if she spoke underwater.

“I’m going for some air,” Alastair said in response.

Escaping—was that all he knew how to do? Escaping Charles, escaping Matthew, escaping Cordelia and the warm confines of the tavern for the cold, quiet night.

It was probably for the best. After all, try as he might, there were yet many things he would not be able to escape.

—

Thomas was beginning to feel rather like he’d found himself in an unpleasant dream. The combined efforts of alcohol and confusion had blurred the loudness of the room into a dull hum, where no single voice or sound was distinguishable from the next. He gazed detachedly up at the flickering candles in the chandelier, one palm pressed into his temple to prop his head up. His friends were having a conversation, but he’d lost the thread of it one drink ago.

Someone was saying his name. “Tom.” Matthew snapped his fingers in front of Thomas’s eyes. “Earth to Thomas Lightwood.” Thomas blinked at his friend’s flushed face, and Matthew grinned at him. “What’s on your mind, Tom?”

Thomas frowned. “Oh.” He struggled to remember. The most salient thought was something about the candles and how they managed to stay lit with all the coming and going that let gusts of wind through the door into the barroom. But that wasn’t very interesting. Surely, Matthew was looking for a more interesting thought.

“There’s Alastair,” James said, to no one in particular. His voice was quiet enough that it was nearly lost to the chatter surrounding them, but Thomas caught it. He glanced quickly to the side in time to see Alastair’s recognizable form disappearing out of the tavern door. Alastair did not give the outside air time to threaten the candles—the door opened barely a crack before it was closed behind him again.

“Thomas.” Matthew waved in front of his face to get his attention now. His eyes were sparkling. “Something is afoot in that brain of yours,” he observed. “Do enlighten us.”

Thomas struggled to compose a response. The only two things that came immediately to mind were Alastair Carstairs and the damn candles. “I don’t know,” he replied, a bit crossly.

Matthew looked amused. “I’m sorry. Am I pestering you?” He reached across the table to pat Thomas’s forearm. “Maybe you should turn in, Tom. You’re right on the edge of a good night’s sleep, methinks.”

A thought occurred to Thomas. “I’m alright,” he said, rising unsteadily to his feet. “But I’m going to…get some air.”

James blinked at him. “Would you like someone to accompany you?”

Thomas shook his head, stepping carefully backwards over the bench. “Don’t concern yourself,” he said, firmly. “I won’t be long.”

With his friends’ confused gazes boring after him, he began to shoulder his way through the crowd. This was not hard to do, given his size—but with the ground swaying slightly beneath his feet, he was not at his most graceful. So he moved more slowly than he wanted to, taking care not to tip anyone off balance, and was immensely relieved when at last he broke free of the throng and was able to slip out of the tavern and into the quiet street.

It was dark apart from faint lamplight and the steady glow of the moon. The cold air sent a shudder through him, but it was a shudder borne more of surprise than anything else: the alcohol burned away his discomfort from within. His breath came out in puffs of fog. The sky was still clear, as it had been all day, and the stars stretched above him like a well-worn, glowing map. 

The soft sound of footsteps on stone echoed in the distance to his right. Thomas turned to see a slouched silhouette striding away from him down the sidewalk. Before he could talk himself out of it, he began to follow.

Alastair was moving with great purpose, it seemed, for he did not notice Thomas catching up to him until Thomas cleared his throat. “Alastair?”

Alastair visibly started, whirling. The moon illuminated his wide-eyed face, and then he saw Thomas and the expression collapsed into something like relief. He rubbed his forehead, cursing under his breath. “Thomas Lightwood,” he said, sounding exasperated. “What do you want?”

Feeling already as though this had been a bad idea, Thomas offered him a hesitant smile. “Did you think I was someone else?”

Alastair shook his head, dropping his hand abruptly. “If I did,” he said, “I do not know why. It has become utterly predictable to find you everywhere I go.”

Thomas could only hope the near-darkness hid his blush. Not that it mattered much—Alastair had already seen him turn every existing shade of red in their few meetings alone. “I just stepped out to get some air,” he explained, sheepishly, “and I spotted you.”

Alastair raised a dubious eyebrow. “Well, then,” he drawled. “I congratulate you on your extraordinary night vision.”

Thomas blushed even deeper. He brought a hand up to smooth the hair on the back of his head, feeling rather foolish. “Are you going somewhere?”

He thought he caught a hint of amusement in the curve of Alastair’s lips, but then it fell into shadow. “No.”

Thomas blinked. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

Alastair huffed out a breath. He seemed to consider for a moment. “I do,” he said, at last. “But I’m afraid the place I want to go is strictly off-limits.”

Thomas was nearly winded by a rush of sympathy. He struggled to find words that would feel even remotely appropriate in response, but there was nothing that wouldn’t pale in comparison to such an ongoing tragedy. Instead, he watched Alastair’s face, the sharp angles softened by moonlight and lamplight. He was not looking back at Thomas. There was something complicated in his expression.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Thomas whispered. Alastair’s eyes darted up and met his.

“If you’re speaking of the Navy’s misdoings, I already know. Fairchild told me.”

“Oh.” Thomas drew in a breath. Alastair’s dark eyes bore into him. “I’m very sorry,” Thomas said. It was hopelessly inadequate, but he had to say it. “I can’t imagine how terrifying it is to know…well, to know.”

Alastair’s gaze was steady. “I’m not terrified,” he said. “I’m furious.”

Thomas nodded his understanding. “Me too.” Before he could stop himself, he added, “We’re going to do something about this. I don’t know exactly what yet, but we won’t let it continue.”

Alastair glanced away. “Do you have the power to make such claims?”

Thomas sighed. “I hope so,” he confessed. “It may help that we hold some degree of social sway around here.”

Alastair cocked an eyebrow at this. “I’ve noticed.”

“And if all else fails,” Thomas added, “Matthew plans to declare war on the Navy.”

Alastair made a sort of choked sound that was nearly passable as a laugh. Thomas smiled.

“You know,” he said, and then paused, wondering if he would regret his next words. Alastair was watching him, though, and he couldn’t bring himself to turn back now. “Do you, ah—do you think it would help to go out on a boat sometime? Just to get closer to the sea for a moment or two?”

Alastair looked confused. “I’m sure it would,” he said, slowly. “But I was under the impression that boating is a dangerous pastime these days.”

It was, and Thomas was a fool, but an idea was forming in his brain now and apparently he had far less self-control than he thought. Or perhaps it was the alcohol—but either way, his mouth was a full step ahead of his rational mind. “It is,” he acknowledged, “if you go all the way out to sea, which is what we’ve been doing. But if one were to sail close to the shoreline, skirting the shallows, I can’t imagine there’d be a problem. Only kappas lurk in the shallows, and kappas are no match for a boat.”

Alastair was staring at him with both eyebrows raised now. Thomas couldn’t tell what he thought of the idea, but he seemed interested, at the very least. “I could take you out,” Thomas offered, hesitantly. “Only if you’d like, of course,” he hastened to add. “It would be fairly safe, but it wouldn’t be entirely safe, and it should fall to you to weigh the risks against the rewards. You know the ocean best, after all.”

Alastair’s expression was still unreadable. “When would we go?”

Thomas considered. He was blushing again, for no good reason, and felt altogether betrayed by his own body. “Tomorrow morning?”

Alastair’s eyebrows arched yet higher on his face. “Really?”

“Well.” Thomas shrugged self-consciously. “If you can wait until then. I’d say now, but it’s a tricky business to sail at night.”

A hint of a smirk tugged at Alastair’s mouth. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, sounding ever-so-slightly amused. “How does one sail at night? That can’t be advisable.”

“It’s really not,” Thomas admitted. “But I’m a navigator, and I quite enjoy using the stars for it.”

Alastair looked intrigued. “You can use the stars to navigate?”

“Ah...yes.” Thomas stepped out into the street to see the sky better, searching for the patterns he’d learned to recognize. He glanced across to see Alastair watching him from the building’s shadow. “If you come over here, I’ll show you something.”

Alastair seemed to hesitate for a moment, but he joined Thomas on the street without protest. At Thomas’s direction, he tilted his head back to look up at the sky. The moonlight caught his face fully, and his brown skin shone silver. His dark eyes, reflecting the faint pinpricks of light above them, became miniature pools of night sky. He blinked, and his eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheeks. Then he glanced sideways at Thomas. “What am I meant to be looking at?”

Thomas jerked in surprise, returning his gaze quickly to the sky. He struggled for a moment to regain his train of thought. The alcohol had clearly done a number on him—he should really be more careful. At last, he found a familiar shape in the endless web of stars.

“It’s a bit more complicated than this,” he said, “but I’ll show you a simple trick.” He pointed. “Do you see the group of stars that looks a bit like a soup ladle?” Alastair hummed noncommittally. Thomas edged closer to him to better point it out. “The four stars there in a sort of square shape, and then the stars branching off it to make the handle.”

He felt Alastair nod. “I see it.”

“Alright.” Thomas swallowed. He was so near Alastair that he could feel warmth radiating between them. As though on cue, Alastair shivered. Thomas realized with a start that he did not have a coat on, and frowned. He wanted very badly to offer his own, but he didn’t know how Alastair would feel about that. He remembered the conclusions that had been drawn from James giving his coat to Cordelia—there was assuredly a connotation attached to the act. The last thing he wanted was to make Alastair uncomfortable.

Alastair was looking at him again, this time with a single raised eyebrow. “Thomas?”

“Yes.” Thomas glanced quickly up again. “Ah—yes. Where were we?”

He could feel Alastair’s eyes on him. “The soup ladle.”

“Right.” Thomas nodded, perhaps a bit vigorously. “Okay. Look at the two stars on the far end of the ladle itself. The square, I mean. Now—” He drew a line through the sky with his finger. “Pretend you’ve drawn a line between them, and continue the line in this direction until you hit another star. It will be the first one you see.”

Alastair hummed. “Alright.”

Thomas dropped his hand. “You’ve got it?” Alastair nodded. “That’s Polaris, the North Star. Christopher could explain the science better than I, but all you really need to know is that this is north.” He pointed to the star again. “Always. If you need to get your bearings, it will be there to help you.”

Alastair made an odd sound, but said nothing—only continued peering up at the night sky. At last, he lowered his gaze to Thomas. “When and where will I meet you tomorrow?”

Thomas had momentarily forgotten his offer. Nervousness settled unsteadily in his stomach. “It will have to be rather early, I’m afraid, so we can be back before I must depart with my crew.” He considered. “Seven, by the docks? Does that suit you?”

Alastair quirked an eyebrow. “That suits me,” he replied, archly.

Thomas flushed. “Good.”

There was an awkward pause. Well, awkward on Thomas’s part: Alastair was gazing at him in open amusement now. “Shall I see you tomorrow?” he asked Thomas.

Thomas nodded. “Yes, I—yes. Tomorrow.”

He thought he caught a flash of a smirk as Alastair turned away from him. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Thomas watched him go. He had the strange sense that he may have gotten himself into something from which there would be no easy escape—but the thought, though difficult to unpack, was not unpleasant. As Alastair disappeared back into the tavern, Thomas glanced once more up at the sky. He drew in a breath, cold air filling his lungs. Polaris shone merrily down on him: a reliable, steadying presence in the night’s endless dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternate title to this chapter is "everyone has a very bad day." Especially me, because I stressed myself out so much by denying Alastair food. I kept looking for moments to feed him, and it kept not being the right moment! I am going to feed him soon, I promise!
> 
> There's a lot of thought going into this characterization of Charles. I'm not going to elaborate on that because if I do I will end up writing an essay, but if you're curious I'm happy to talk more about it. Speaking of which. I made a tumblr! [Here it is!](https://take-the-train.tumblr.com/) I haven't had one since like 2016 and even then I was a ghostly presence at best, so you'll have to bear with me, but I thought it would be nice to have an easy way to stay connected. You're welcome anytime to say hi/hang out/ask questions if they come up :)
> 
> I do not intend to make you wait another month for the next chapter, especially as chain of iron—god help us—is imminent. But I will warn you that from a logistical perspective, it's likely to be a monster to execute (I say this fondly but with great fear), so I can't promise a quick turnaround.


	6. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in the nick of time, I’ve got a mini chapter for you! This entire set of scenes was supposed to go in chapter 5. In fact, the main reason chapter 5 took me so long was that I kept refusing to end it any earlier than this, and then I realized that it was getting Very Lengthy and was forced to finally end it in the sad hole of darkness I had driven it into. 
> 
> Anyway. Given that a) this doesn’t quite belong anywhere now, b) it still needed to happen, and c) the very chaotic full-length chapter coming at you soon was too much for me to finish before today, I figured the best course of action would be to make this its own thing and gift it to you before I drop off the face of the earth to read chain of iron. I have also attached to it a poem that means a lot to me for personal reasons, to enhance the good vibes before the vibes get dicey for all of us. Please enjoy!!
> 
> (TW for a brief but unpleasant depiction of eating, which you should see coming. I’m sorry about that for so many reasons, I don’t know why I do things like this.)

_I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,  
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;  
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,  
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking._

— John Masefield, _Sea Fever_

All night, Alastair dreamed that he swam in a sea of stars.

In the dream, his tail returned to him. He knew this first and foremost because he didn’t have to think about it. If he were swimming with legs—clumsy, unfamiliar legs—the sheer frustration of it would have grabbed the dream by its edges and torn it in two. But no, he had his tail, and it was the color of the deep night through which he swam.

The stars themselves were glowing orbs of light, far bigger than they’d seemed when he and Thomas had gazed up at them from far below. He floated amongst them: sometimes moving with purpose and the feeling of cool air rippling past him like water, other times forfeiting movement to drift aimlessly. On occasion he passed straight through a star, as though it wasn’t a star at all but rather a formless projection of light, and each time it felt like a brief plunge into warmer waters. The sensation of it evoked his mother’s home sea in a way only Persian merfolk songs had ever been able to achieve.

What was it, then, about the stars?

When Alastair woke, for a moment he could not place himself. The world was cold and dry in a way it shouldn’t be, the gentle cradle of water notably absent—leaving him alone and without comfort, like an infant abandoned, unswaddled, in an unfamiliar crib. He waited, blinking away lingering sleep, but nothing about the situation grew any more familiar or less alarming. It was dim, wherever he was. No visible clues to help him find his bearings.

Alastair pushed himself upright. Every part of his body screamed in protest, from his spinning head to the aching palms he’d used to prop himself up on his mattress. His _mattress._ And now, at last, he knew where he was.

The previous night’s events slammed into him like a physical blow. He gasped as his stomach roiled, fearing for a moment that this time he was _actually_ going to be sick, but he not eaten in a day and the sickness had nothing to grab onto. His breath caught around nausea for a horrible second or two, and then the wave of panic crested, fell, and left him to exhale with a small, pained sound he was glad no one else was around to hear. 

Then it was quiet apart from the pounding inside his own head. Wincing, he took his weight off his hands to examine them in the dimness. They shook with discomfort as he held them out before him, but the bandages remained unsoiled; he’d managed not to reopen his wounds. Relief coursed through him. The cuts hadn’t, after all, been terribly deep—only jagged and numerous. Perhaps there was some hope that they’d heal quickly, and then this particular nightmare would be over.

As his eyes adjusted, Alastair realized that certain changes had occurred in his room. There was no fire alight in the fireplace, but the faint smoldering of the black logs and barely visible lingering embers indicated that there _had_ been one, sometime in the night. A long package was slung over the back of his desk chair, and the desk itself held new items he couldn’t identify. Evidently, somebody had been in and out of his room while he slept. The thought was startling, especially because his somewhat limited knowledge of human customs barred him from knowing for sure whether that was a normal occurrence. He wasn’t certain it would help to know it was, anyhow.

Moving slowly to avoid jarring his body further, Alastair removed himself from his tangle of bedsheets and took a few unsteady steps across his creaking wooden floor. To his surprise, he did not have to brace himself against any walls or furniture this time, although it was certainly not a _pleasant_ experience to be upright. He made for the desk chair first, gingerly taking the slumped, paper-wrapped package into his arms. It was heavier than it looked, and he made a quick decision to toss it onto to his bed.

From the paper wrapping Alastair produced a few white shirts, a waistcoat in cobalt blue, a second suit—this one pale gray—and a long, thick woolen coat of a darker gray. He frowned down at the garments. There was something unsettling about the idea of wearing a color that was not black, but as colors went, he had to admit these weren’t the _worst_ possible selections. Blue and gray were oceanic enough, certainly preferable to green or red—or, god forbid, something _gaudy_ like purple or orange. Small mercies these were, surely.

Leaving the clothing to deal with later, he made his way back over to his desk. There, in addition to Anna’s conch shell and Thomas’s book which he’d nicked from the sitting room, he found an object shaped like a metal dome and a notecard with slanted, looping ink scrawled across it. He took up the notecard to examine it, but it was too dim in his room to read properly. Bracing himself for the bright sunlight he’d encountered yesterday, he reached for the window above his desk and drew back the curtains.

There was no brightness. Instead, the light that came through the window was faint and gentle. It was barely dawn outside—the sky, ashy lavender overhead, had only just begun to give way to pink around the edges.

Alastair lowered himself into his chair, peering down at the note held between his thumb and forefinger. The writing was somewhere between elegant and messy: like it cared somewhat about appearances, but not quite enough to take its time.

_Sorry I missed you yesterday. I hope I might catch you sometime today—I gather from a number of sources that there has been a new development in our dealings with the Navy. In the meantime, breakfast. And another day’s worth of clothing (more soon). In the pocket of the wool coat, you’ll find a wallet which contains sufficient funds for any needs or wants you may have about town. Recall that I own a popular tavern and lack the burden of a family to care for, so you must see that you are doing me a favor by taking excess off my hands. If you attempt to return it to me or otherwise voice protest, I will double it on the spot. Do not try me. Assuming you wake before nighttime, I’d recommend a walk along the beach on the north side of town. In seeking to clear my head, I’ve found it lessens even the darkest of storms._

_– A_

Alastair exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair as he let the note fall to the desk before him. He was starting to get the sense that well-intentioned pushiness was a speciality of Anna’s. It didn’t worry him terribly; he knew he was quite capable of pushing back, if ever he must. 

She was probably right about the beach. Though he supposed there would be a sort of torture in the ocean’s nearness, he longed to see it still. Something flickered at this, brightly, in the back of his mind. Alastair froze. He reached wildly through his sleep-foggy brain, grasping for it until it hit him: _Thomas._

Alastair sat bolt upright, the chair creaking in sudden protest beneath him. _I’m going boating with Thomas._ With the realization came the accompanying memory: stargazing in the freezing cold. He’d stood with every muscle clenched to keep shivers from showing, attention torn between the low cadence of Thomas’s voice and the other man’s looming presence as he’d edged nearer to point out shapes in the sky. Despite the night’s chill, Thomas had actually seemed to _radiate_ heat, and Alastair, certain that a horrid death from hypothermia was in his immediate future, had been immensely annoyed by how badly he wished to place himself closer to that heat. It was a miracle, really, that he’d managed to pick up _any_ of the lesson on stars, what with how distracting that impulse had been. In his desperation, he’d caught himself thinking up ways he might prompt Thomas to take initiative—perhaps by affecting a fainting spell, in the hopes that he might be caught and drawn into warm arms—and nearly choked on mortification at his own train of thought.

Even the memory of this made Alastair’s cheeks grow warm now, and he firmly pushed it from his mind. The important thing was that somewhere in there, plans had been made. As he struggled to piece them together, he realized with a start that not only was he going boating with Thomas—he was going boating with Thomas _today._ He’d promised to be at the docks by seven. A frantic search for a clock found one on the adjacent wall, near the cupboard: it was just past six. He had plenty of time. Lucky that his body had chosen to wake him at such an early hour. Perhaps, indeed, it had remembered when his brain had not.

Despite this, Alastair attacked the necessary steps of a human morning with a speed that suggested he had very little time. He could not imagine why he felt the need to do this, especially as every task he undertook went worse than the last. Breakfast, on a tray beneath the mysterious silver dome, at first seemed promising. It was a fish, flayed open along one edge, and it tasted well enough, if oddly sweet and slimy—but his long-empty stomach protested the sudden invasion of food, and he had to give up on it halfway for fear that it would come straight back up his throat again. Then, preparing to dress himself, he glanced in the mirror and decided he was dissatisfied with his present state of cleanliness and would attempt to bathe. This also necessitated deciding that he was quite capable of changing his bandages on his own, an idea which notably lacked logic or evidence to support it. Nevertheless, onward he went.

The bath itself served its purpose nicely enough—the water didn’t hurt his hands so much now that they had begun to scab over, and it was good to be back in a proper element—but when he was finished and clothed in his new pants and waistcoat, he found himself studying the bandages and bottles Cordelia had left behind with growing dread. He hadn’t paid any attention to how they were meant to be applied. He’d preferred not to acknowledge his wounds at all, to the extent that that was possible.

Surely, it shouldn’t be _that_ complicated. He knew the thicker bandages were for his palms, and the thinner ones for his fingers. The small green bottle looked the most familiar, so that was probably the ointment. The clear bottle was for…cleaning, perhaps? It smelled vaguely of alcohol when he held it under his nose. He hadn’t the faintest idea what the blue bottle was for; a fingertip inserted into the whitish substance within revealed only that it was quite sticky. He set it aside along with a small paintbrush he couldn’t imagine a use for, hoping distantly that neither item was important, and got to work.

It did not take long for him to determine that, in the first place, attempting a task which involved intricate and specific use of an injured body part had been a terrible bloody idea—and in the second place, the bandages had no self-adhesive and fell straight off his hands and onto the floor without glue to hold them in place. That would be the blue bottle, then, and the paintbrush for application. Alastair rolled his eyes at himself.

Many excruciating minutes later, his hands were wrapped haphazardly and absolutely throbbing in pain. Alastair, standing in a mess of spilled glue and discarded bandages, bristled with annoyance at Thomas Lightwood. He wasn’t precisely sure what Thomas had done wrong, only that something about this was clearly his fault. For one thing, it had been the prospect of his invitation which had sent Alastair into a mad rush through a terrible routine, and for another, Alastair needn’t have bathed at all if he weren’t meeting Thomas.

But why _had_ he bathed? Thomas didn’t seem like the type to take offense at somebody else’s cleanliness or lack thereof. Surely, he wouldn’t have cared. Furthermore, _Alastair_ didn’t care whether Thomas cared. He wasn’t at all concerned with what Thomas thought of him. Which meant there had been absolutely no reason to put himself through such an ordeal in the name of appearances.

Scowling, Alastair left the mess as it was and stalked back into the washroom to look at himself in the mirror. Though he did not care how he would look to Thomas, he had to determine whether his foolishness had been worth it. The mirror showed him mixed results. Certainly, he was clean. His dark hair had grown messy as it dried, but a quick run-through with a comb set it right. His skin, clearly having benefited from Anna’s moisturizer, glowed startlingly. Otherwise, he looked like he’d been days without sleep and would gladly commit murder at the slightest provocation. But there was not much to be done about that.

Remembering last night’s cold, Alastair donned the dark gray wool coat and slipped into the quiet dimness of the upstairs hallway. He saw no one there, nor down in the barroom as he passed—the tavern must not be open yet. He unconsciously braced himself as he eased open the front door, but was surprised to find no unpleasantness outside. The sky had grown pinker, and the light was still faint. The cold, though still present, had receded somewhat. 

Alastair could feel his stormy mood ebbing as he made his way through town. The lovely light flattered everything, even the ugly brick buildings, and very few humans were out and about to bother him. As he walked, the prospect of the sea became realer and realer in his mind. This was why he had agreed to this excursion, was it not? To be with the ocean—truly _with_ it, even if he could not be within it. A wave of anticipation washed over him, stealing his breath for a dizzying moment.

No matter the morning’s rough start, he was glad he’d decided to do this. Or, more specifically, he was glad that Thomas had decided to do this and that he had agreed. Perhaps it had been a bit hasty to curse Thomas Lightwood’s existence, after all.

This was a timely thought, for it bestowed upon him a kinder disposition toward Thomas than he might’ve otherwise possessed at the precise moment that he spotted him.

Thomas stood on one of the docks, gazing down at something held in his hand. Behind him, the sea and the sky were the same pale pink. Alastair stopped in his tracks at the sight. For a moment he was certain that this time his breath had left him for good—and then it came back in a rush that nearly made his chest hurt. Thomas had noticed him. Alastair made an effort to wipe what had surely been a foolish expression from his face, but Thomas was already smiling faintly.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he called, as Alastair approached. He slipped the object he’d been looking at back into his coat, but not before Alastair recognized it as a pocket watch.

“Am I late?” Alastair said in response. He nearly startled at the unsteady feeling of the dock beneath his feet, but recovered quickly. Aware that Thomas was watching him, he slowed his stride, picking his way more carefully over the wood as it creaked under his footsteps.

“Only a little.” Thomas was still smiling. “I don’t mind, I’m nearly always running late myself.”

Alastair reached him at last, immensely relieved that none of the planks had given way beneath him. They’d felt liable to do so; he couldn’t imagine how Thomas, much larger than he was, stood atop them with such trust. “Not today, though,” he observed, planting his feet as he met Thomas’s eyes.

“No, not today.” Faint color rose in Thomas’s cheeks, and he glanced away from Alastair toward the boat they stood beside. Alastair followed his gaze.

He’d seen plenty of sailboats before. This one was visibly nicer than the average. The chestnut wood gleamed warmly, and the largest sail—clean, cream-colored fabric that rippled in the wind—had a pattern of flames emblazoned across the bottom edge. Alastair examined it with his eyebrows raised. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thomas reach up to rub at the back of his neck.

“It’s my family’s boat,” he said, like that explained everything about it.

Alastair glanced sideways at him. “They’re alright with you borrowing it?”

“Yes,” Thomas said. Then he winced. “Well, no. Usually it’d be alright, but with the ocean as it is right now…” He trailed off meaningfully.

Alastair gave him a look. “Is this a bad idea?”

To his surprise, Thomas shook his head without a second thought. “I stand by what I said yesterday. If we stay in the shallows, we’ll be fine.” He met Alastair’s gaze, hazel eyes suddenly earnest. “But you must be comfortable with it. If you’re not, there’s no need for us to sail. We could walk along the shore instead.” The pink of his cheeks darkened. “I mean, or you could—if you’d rather. I don’t have to intrude.”

Alastair couldn’t resist a small smirk. Some people blushed when prodded in the right manner, but Thomas didn’t seem to need any prodding whatsoever; he was clearly quite capable of prodding himself into a state. “I stand by what I said as well.” He jerked one shoulder in the direction of the boat. “Sailing is fine.”

Thomas’s eyes lit up. “Brilliant! I mean, perfect. That’s very good.” He was grinning widely, and the grin and his flushed cheeks and bright eyes all made his face overwhelming to look at, so Alastair looked away. He wrinkled his nose at himself as Thomas hopped onto the boat.

“I’ve got everything in order already,” Thomas said. He began to fiddle with some ropes in an apparent contradiction of his words, peering up at the sail with his brow furrowed. Alastair eyed the sailboat, and then the dock, and then the gap between the two. There was no way he’d be able to hop it as easily as Thomas had. He’d make it, probably, but not with much grace. As he contemplated the likelihood of such a maneuver ending with him sprawled inelegantly face-down in the boat, Thomas left the ropes and came over to offer a hand to him.

“Here,” he said. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Alastair felt his face heat entirely without his permission. He wanted to reject the offer out of mortification, but that seemed liable to result in even further mortification. There was nothing for it. Steadfastly avoiding Thomas’s gaze, he moved to take his hand.

At the last second, Thomas reached forward and firmly grasped Alastair’s forearm instead, steadying him as he stepped across onto the boat’s edge and wobbled a little. For a single, confused moment, Alastair was certain that Thomas had done this specifically to draw attention to the ridiculous size of his hands—his palms were wide enough that his fingers nearly encircled the whole width of Alastair’s muscled forearm—and then he remembered that his own hands were visibly injured and realized that he was, in fact, an idiot.

At least Thomas had possessed the presence of mind to keep him from hurting himself. Alastair wasn’t sure where _his_ mind was, but present it clearly was not. He didn’t even process that Thomas had released him until he watched the other man flex his now-empty hand before tucking it into his pocket. The feeling of his warm grip lingered around Alastair’s forearm as Alastair found himself standing safely in the boat, one odd eternity later.

“Thank you,” he said, into the awkward silence.

Thomas offered him a hesitant smile. “Shall we sail?”

—

Alastair knew nothing of the mechanics of sailing, but it did not matter, for he found that he did not care. As they picked up speed, the smell of the ocean and the sticky feeling of sea air against his skin stole away his awareness of the boat, of Thomas, of his own body and all its discomforts. Perhaps he was only desperate, but it felt much closer to the real thing than he’d expected. The sway of the boat helped a great deal—it made him feel as though he was at the mercy of the ocean, the only entity in the world he wished to be beholden to. He liked it so much that he nearly wanted to lie down on the boat’s floor, just to feel it better. But he restrained himself.

Besides, by remaining upright he had the best view of the sunrise, which had moved from breathtaking to thoroughly stunning as they made their way into the heart of it. The world was entirely pink, from the sky around them to the mirror-like terrain of rippling water. Faint wisps of clouds were smeared at infrequent intervals like smudges of paint on a canvas.

Thomas spoke for the first time since they’d set out. “You know,” he said, “I think this is the loveliest I’ve seen it.”

Alastair tore his gaze away from the horizon long enough to look at him. Thomas was seated beside his steering mechanism, his short hair disheveled by the wind. There was an expression of unguarded amazement on his face.

Alastair looked back out at the sunrise. “It is quite nice,” he admitted.

“Do you see much of the surface?” Thomas asked curiously. “When you’re living underwater, I mean.”

Alastair shrugged. “Not much.” He thought about it for a moment, reluctant as he always was to divulge personal information. “I come up every once in awhile, I suppose.”

“I see.” Thomas’s tone indicated that he found the response far more interesting than Alastair had intended it to be. Alastair glanced sideways at him warily. “That’s quite odd to think about.” Thomas looked thoughtful. “How different your experience of the ocean is from mine.” He made a face. “Well, obviously. But I most enjoy sailing at sunrise or sunset, because for me the experience begins and ends with the surface. I have only a vague conception of what it is you experience, and I’m probably quite far off.”

“Probably,” Alastair agreed. It was evident that Thomas wanted him to talk about what life was like underwater, but was holding himself back from asking outright. Alastair was surprised to find himself toying with whether or not to give in, but Thomas made his choice for him by standing abruptly with a sharp intake of breath.

“Lord, I nearly forgot!” He crossed the boat to rummage in a crate and produced a small metal canteen, which he uncapped and held out to Alastair. “This is for you.”

Alastair took it gingerly. The metal was warm against the little skin left bare of bandages, and a strangely pleasant bitter smell wafted from within it. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Thomas.

“It’s coffee,” Thomas said. “Have you heard of it?” Alastair shook his head. “It’s a drink,” Thomas explained. “Humans derive energy from it.”

This phenomenon was familiar enough. Alastair eyed the dark, steaming liquid. “Like tea?”

“Yes!” Thomas said. “Much like tea. You’ve had tea, then?”

“On occasion,” Alastair offered vaguely. With Charles, in France. He hadn’t been overly fond of it.

“It’s the same concept, really,” Thomas went on, earnestly. “You can add milk or sugar to it. But I thought—” He faltered, growing faintly pink again. “Well, I thought you might prefer it without.”

Alastair looked up at him again, raising both eyebrows now. Thomas flushed deeper as their eyes met. “Did you, now?” Alastair asked, letting Thomas hear his amusement. “I get the sense there’s a judgement of some sort being passed here.”

“Not at all,” Thomas quickly assured him, his red cheeks belying his words.

Alastair kept his eyes on Thomas’s as took an experimental sip of the coffee. It tasted as bitter as it smelled, but he found that he did not mind it. “Hmm,” he said, lowering the canteen again. “I think your judgement was sound.”

Thomas looked relieved. “Oh, brilliant. It really is good for energy too, you’ll find.” He seemed to hesitate. Alastair took another sip of the coffee, steeling himself for whatever was coming next. At last Thomas said, “How are you feeling?”

Alastair cursed internally. His physical state was not something he was keen to think on himself, let alone discuss with Thomas. “Fine.”

Thomas visibly struggled to smother a dubious look. Alastair felt his own expression harden in response. “You can tell me the truth,” Thomas said, slowly. “I know it’s not easy for you to be on land.”

Alastair narrowed his eyes. “I am telling you the truth.”

Thomas frowned. “But—”

“But nothing,” Alastair snapped. He glared at Thomas challengingly. “How are _you_ feeling?”

Thomas looked confused. “Me?” He paused, mouth opening and closing a few times. At last he said, “I’m fine.”

“You can tell me the truth,” Alastair echoed, a vicious lilt creeping into his voice. “I know your health is problematic.”

It didn’t feel like an awful thing to say; after all, he was only employing the very term Thomas had used to describe his health, years ago when they’d first met. But the expression that crossed Thomas’s face made him immediately wish that he could take the words back.

It was brief—only a flash of deep, surprised hurt that Thomas quickly reigned in—but Alastair caught it well enough to be startled by it. He’d turned the line of questioning on Thomas in the hopes that the other man would see more clearly the boundary he was crossing, but it was clear to _him_ now that he’d underestimated the significance this particular boundary had for Thomas. He found himself torn between unwelcome guilt and the annoyance which lingered despite it. Struggling to split his attention between the two emotions, he drew in a breath. “Sorry.”

Thomas’s mouth twisted. “No, I’m sorry. I should know by now not to push you on matters you don’t wish to discuss.”

The words were audibly genuine, but Alastair did not think he was imagining the slight edge on them, either. He released the breath through his teeth, considering Thomas. Thomas’s eyes met his, then darted away again.

“How’s the coffee?” he asked.

Alastair felt the corner of his mouth twitch at the obvious change in subject. “Better than tea.”

Thomas gave him a faintly amused look. Inexplicable relief washed over Alastair. “That could mean anything,” he pointed out. “I don’t know how you feel about tea.”

Alastair took a slow sip of the coffee, pretending to consider. “Alright,” he admitted, “I like it. Is that clear enough for you?”

Thomas smiled now. “Do you feel energized?”

“Oh, yes,” Alastair drawled, as dryly as he could manage. “I’m quite energetic, can’t you tell?”

“Hmm.” Thomas grinned a little, looking him up and down. “Not quite. Perhaps you should demonstrate.”

Alastair had grown warm out of nowhere—too warm for his wool coat. Perhaps he’d overestimated the need for it in this morning’s weather. He gave Thomas a dubious look. “How?”

Thomas shrugged. “You could do a dance,” he suggested. His tone was dead serious, but his hazel eyes sparkled. Alastair snorted.

“It’ll take more than a canteen of coffee to make me dance,” he replied, moving to sit on a nearby plank bench. Thomas tilted his head curiously.

“Have you danced before?” he asked. “Ever, I mean? Is there a merfolk equivalent?”

Alastair had to think about this. “There is, but it doesn’t play nearly as key a role in our society as it seems to in yours.” He raised an eyebrow at Thomas as the other man moved to sit across from him. “By human standards, I suppose I’ve never danced.”

“Really!” Thomas sounded amazed. “I suppose that’s not very surprising, but still quite something. I must say I envy you.”

Alastair smirked a little. “You’re not fond of dancing?”

“Not at all.” Thomas wrinkled his nose. The expression brought out a boyishness which Alastair had often observed in his handsome face. “I don’t mind it much when I’m dancing with someone I enjoy talking to, but otherwise it’s an absolute slog. You’re expected to make passable conversation with people you don’t know very well, and keep your feet in the meantime or risk making a fool of yourself in front of half of society!” He shuddered. “Not my idea of a pleasant time.”

Alastair made a firm pact with himself that long as he lived, he’d never let himself be roped into dancing. “No, it hardly sounds enjoyable,” he agreed. “What is your idea of a pleasant time, then?”

Thomas looked surprised. “Oh,” he said. He seemed to hesitate. “You needn’t make small talk, you know.”

“I’m asking because I’m interested,” Alastair told him evenly. He tried not to be offended by how Thomas’s surprised look grew. Grimacing a little, he added, “I don’t hate _everything_ about human customs. Some of your pastimes are compelling enough.”

“That’s hardly high praise,” Thomas pointed out. He peered at Alastair thoughtfully, head tilted again, and a small smile played about his mouth. “Fine, then. I will tell you my preferred pastimes, and we shall see if they are up to your standards.”

“Good.” Alastair finished the canteen of coffee and set it aside, crossing his legs. “That was my aim in asking—you have sussed it out.”

Thomas laughed like it had been startled out of him. “I might’ve known.” He leaned forward on his bench, lacing his long fingers together. “You can’t scare me, Alastair Carstairs. I suspect we are not at odds on this matter.”

Alastair arched an eyebrow at him. “We shall see about that.”

—

It transpired that Thomas was right: very many of his interests aligned with the aspects of human society Alastair cared most for. How Thomas had anticipated this alignment was absolutely beyond Alastair, but he couldn’t find a reason to complain. He found himself thoroughly engaged despite himself as the conversation drifted from literature to art, and then from art to history—and then, at last, from history to music.

Thomas was oddly dodgy about music. He clearly possessed a great deal of interest in it, but was unwilling to share where this interest came from or how he went about nurturing it. Instead, he asked Alastair all manner of questions about merfolk songs and seemed thrilled to no end by Alastair’s patient, thorough responses. Alastair had never spoken so much with anyone about merfolk songs, and he was surprised to realize that he’d clearly wanted a chance to do so. Thoughts ran straight from his brain onto his tongue in a steady stream—he wasn’t sure if he could hold them back, and he _was_ sure that he did not wish to anyway. The sensation was utterly foreign.

As the minutes sailed past and they still did not exhaust topics to discuss, Alastair mused that he’d rarely found himself in such enthusiastic conversation. He and Charles had certainly conversed a great deal, and he remembered enjoying it—but the conversations had been rather geared towards Charles and his political ambitions. He’d always seemed to Alastair to possess knowledge that was worth absorbing, so Alastair had often found himself listening patiently to whatever Charles deemed necessary to pass on.

Like Charles, Thomas was eager to speak about human customs and their intricacies. But unlike Charles, he did not speak as though he was teaching Alastair—he did not, in fact, speak as though what he was saying carried any import whatsoever. He seemed content simply to exchange thoughts, to ask Alastair questions and then follow-up questions, to compose observations for the mere sake of thinking an issue through. Alastair was impressed. Worst of all, he couldn’t even bring himself to be resentful about it.

They spoke for such a long time that the sky’s pink began to give way to blue, and then they kept trading comments and questions as Thomas turned the boat back to shore. When Alastair realized that they were approaching the docks, he broke off in surprise.

“Must we dock already?” he asked Thomas. “I thought you weren’t meeting your friends until nine.”

Thomas smiled at him apologetically. “We’re minutes away now.”

“You’re bloody joking.” Alastair stared at him. “It’s been two hours?”

“That it has.” Thomas did something complicated with the sail as they glided back into the boat’s original resting place, bumping rhythmically into the dock’s edge. He was still smiling, now at the ropes he fumbled with. “I lost track of time as well.”

Alastair watched him as he crossed the boat to hoist the anchor overboard. He realized, with no small amount of dismay, that he desperately did not want to disembark. He’d grown used to the sway of the boat beneath him and the blessed distance it offered from his imprisonment on land. For a brief time, the nightmare had lifted.

Thomas, having hopped from the boat to the dock, had a knowing look in his eyes. Alastair avoided his gaze, even as he offered his arm to be grasped. Thomas took his forearm again, but this time, as Alastair stepped down onto the dock, another hand went around his shoulder to steady him. This was hardly necessary, given that he’d managed to keep his balance, but Thomas did not immediately release him. Instead, he peered down at Alastair, holding him now between both of his gigantic hands. Alastair blinked up at him, confusion delaying the arrival of annoyance. “Thomas?”

Thomas seems to struggle with his words for a moment. At last he said, “I’m sorry.”

Alastair was no less confused. “What for?”

“That our time was limited.” Thomas’s eyes were troubled. “I know it did you good to be out there—I could see it.” Before Alastair could even begin to process this statement, he added, “I wish I did not have to send you back into a place you hate.”

Alastair wished that too, but he did not say so. “Don’t apologize,” he offered, resignedly. “You can hardly help that you have a life to attend to.”

“I know,” Thomas replied. “Is it foolish to say I wish I did not?”

Alastair gave him a wry look. “Given that your daily agenda involves journeying into immense danger, I’d say you’re allowed misgivings.”

“But that’s not what I mean,” Thomas said. He looked briefly frustrated, and then shook his head. “Never mind. We can always do this again.”

Alastair felt his breath catch. “We can?”

“Well, why not?” Thomas smiled at him. “It went without trouble today, didn’t it? We could go out every morning, if you want.”

Alastair could see that he meant it. Relief coursed through him so suddenly he felt almost sick with it. “I would like that.”

Thomas grinned again in the way that made his face overwhelming to look at. Alastair did not avert his gaze quickly enough, and his stomach gave an odd swoop. He was very glad when Thomas finally released him so they could walk back up the docks together. 

“I must part ways with you now,” Thomas said over the creaking of rotting wood beneath their feet. “But perhaps I’ll see you tonight.” He seemed to hesitate. “And tomorrow? At seven again?”

“Yes,” Alastair said firmly.

He felt Thomas’s smile like sunlight against the side of his face. “Good.”

After they parted ways, Alastair stopped just at the edge of town and turned back. The sky was almost completely blue now, the ocean returned to its natural deep navy, and the sun had found its way above the horizon. Thomas lingered outside his odd black ship, gazing at something out in the direction of the sea. None of his friends seemed to have joined him yet. Alastair wondered if they’d be surprised by his timeliness. 

_Every morning,_ he told himself, putting his back to the scene. _Every morning,_ he’d be able to visit the place he truly belonged. The thought, repeated in his head like a mantra, steeled him and steadied him as Alicante pulled him gladly back into its smothering grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alastair and Thomas go on a boat date, the end. Because we deserve nice things before chain of iron (or after, if you're very speedy). I can justify this as a writer because the danger & intrigue will return next chapter :) so enjoy relaxation while it lasts, my friends.
> 
> Btw, the "how are _you_ feeling?" was inspired by "what are _you_ doing in paris?" because Alastair's defensive conversational tactics live in my head rent free. Also, every good ship deserves a pride & prejudice moment, I will not budge on this.
> 
> [Come say hi](https://take-the-train.tumblr.com/) anytime, otherwise...please keep this a spoiler-free zone, see you on the other side, may we all come out in one piece, amen.


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